The Mountain and the Wolf
by kharnate
Summary: A new champion intervenes to defend Tyrion Lannister from accusations of nepoticide in a trial by combat. (Cover image by JustLoui)
1. Chapter 1

Spirits were high that day as the representatives and members of the Houses of Westeros and the movers and shakers of King's Landing entered the arena. The excitement of Joffrey Baratheon's horrible death had started to fade away, and the trial to determine his murderer's guilt was just the thing to revive it. It was already known that the accused uncle's previous champion had refused to wear his colors against the grieving mother's, a desertion universally recognized as perfectly sensible given the accusatory champion's reputation. The announcement that Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne had volunteered instead had caused quite a stir, and the duel was assured to be something to recount to one's grandchildren. Much gold had changed hands already on the outcome.

As the arena seats filled, the accusatory champion entered, followed by a young man bearing a large wineskin. Clad in inch-thick steel from head to toe, Gregor Clegane did not bother with the pretense of politeness, only draining the wineskin, picking up his sword and giving his unfortunate squire a cuff that left the boy with a broken nose for not presenting the skin fast enough. Taking a deep draught, he seemed completely uninterested in the absence of his opponent.

A expectant hush fell over the crowd as the arena corridor remained empty. From his own seat, Tyrion Lannister looked towards the gate through which his savior was to enter. Despite knowing the Dornishman's love of attention and triumphant entrances, he thought this was laying it on a bit thick. The sound of voices raised in furious disagreement could be heard from the gate, but the individual words could not be made out. Finally there was silence, soon replaced by regular thuds, as though Prince Oberyn had for some reason elected to be preceded by servants throwing heavy sandbags. Finally the defendant's champion appeared.

The crowd did not bother to hide their astonishment. Everyone knew the Mountain was the biggest man in Westeros, and yet the newcomer was larger still. He wore no helm, and his hair and beard were a shocking shade of ginger-brown, shorn into a tall crest that added half a foot to his height. But immediately after noticing the stranger's size, the onlookers could only stare with horror at the dozens of skulls that adorned his night-black armor, dangling from ropes or impaled on the spikes of his pauldrons. Most of them were human, but some were far too large and deformed to be easily identified. A single wooden pole with a splintered tip protruded incongruously from the back of the giant's armor, as though whatever banner or personal icon it had carried had been snapped off so as to maintain incognito (or perhaps, as one wit remarked to his neighbor, because it would not fit through the door).

Only the Mountain himself showed no emotion, despite facing a foe bigger than himself for possibly the first time in his adult life. He only drew his sword and planted it on the cobbles, waiting for the signal to start.

The challenger barely acknowledged the excited whispers and pointed fingers of the crowd, his gaze focused solely on Clegane. Evidently satisfied, he gave a slight smirk and drew his own blade, longer than most men were tall and forged of black steel. Behind him, Prince Oberyn slipped through the door and circled the arena to join his wife near to a small row of columns, his face dark as a thundercloud. Another man, wearing furs in the manner of those beyond the Wall followed at a slower pace, owing to the bundle of enormous sheathed swords he carried in both arms. On reaching the defendant's corner near Tyrion, he set down his burden gratefully, mopping his bald brow and taking a deep swig from a large wine-skin, evidently prepared to continue doing so for the rest of the day.

A clerk came running up to the giant carrying a long scroll of parchment, the name "Oberyn of House Martell" hastily crossed out. Despite craning his head back as far as he could, he still ended up addressing a shoulder.

"Your name, Ser?"

The newcomer scratched his bearded chin thoughtfully before rumbling out in a guttural voice.

"I am- hmmm. My name is yet unknown in these parts. Put me down as the Wolf for now."

As the clerk ran back to his records and the Wolf approached the center, imitating his opponent's posture, Grand Maester Pycelle began a long litany of legal boilerplate and was quickly interrupted by Lord Tywin. No one raised any objections, least of all the champions, and the trial to determine the innocence of Tyrion Lannister began.

And yet it began with a duel of an entirely different sort. As the giants turned to face each other, the man who called himself the Wolf called out to his opponent as if both were in casual conversation, yet loud enough to be heard by those in the topmost seats.

"Do you know who I am?"

Again the crowd broke out in astonished buzzing. From his appearance the newcomer might have been from the Iron Islands or beyond the Wall, and yet he spoke Westerosi with not a hint of a foreign accent. One or two even thought they recognized the same accent and manner of speech as their native villages of the Westerlands. But it was simply impossible that two such giants could be born there without it becoming public knowledge, if only from bragging midwives.

The Mountain, unwilling to strike blindly at an unknown foe, merely shrugged bad-humoredly.

"No? Well, I have decided to make myself known as the Wolf. I hear they call you the Mountain. Once I'm through with you, I think "The Molehill" will be more appropriate!"

Still Clegane remained where he was, though his eyelid twitched.

"You may not have noticed, but I was not supposed to be your opponent. Luckily, I was able to strike a bargain with him, and the man forfeited what claims he had on your life in exchange for my carrying out his simple request. Also I threatened to gut him here and there if he stood in my way, leaving him dead and his oath unfilfilled. An intelligent man willing to listen to reason, as you can see."

Many a glance turned to the handsome Dornishman leaning against a pillar, his wife looking at him with a relieved expression. The Prince's own murderous expression convinced many of the truth of the Wolf's words.

"He asked me to deliver a message. Ready?"

The giant cleared his throat dramatically as the Mountain failed to react in the slightest, although his tightening grip on the hilt showed that what little patience he had was quickly frittering away. Not a sound was heard around the arena. Then, marking out each word in a startlingly accurate impression of the Prince's Dornish accent, the Wolf stated:

"Elia Martell."

"You raped her."

"You murdered her."

"You killed her children."

There was no reaction from the Mountain, although Lord Tywin did raise an eyebrow and bring a hand to his chin. From his post on the sidelines, Prince Oberyn's fevered gaze went back and forth from vassal to liege.

"Ring any bells?"

"No?"

"Well, it was to be expected, I suppose. With a skull as thick as yours, I'm surprised you even know your own name!"

And suddenly the Wolf's voice was dripping with well-meaning concern, even as Clegane slowly lifted his enormous sword.

"You _are_ capable of killing things larger and more dangerous than unarmed women and newborns, I hope? I came all the way to this stinking shitpile of a city after hearing that the greatest warriors in the South were found there, but perhaps I made a mistake after all. Indeed, perhaps you are nothing but a master butcher called away from his honest duty of carving dead meat and selling dog as veal, wearing your second-best cauldron for barding, and the truest warrior here is that little fellow over there, the one the size of my shin."

"RAAAARRRGGGHHHH!"

With a bestial roar, Clegane lunged forward, his sword flashing downwards. The Wolf made no effort to dodge, but only brought up his own massive weapon. The clash of metal on metal was heard outside the arena.

Their blades locked, both champions pushed at each other like a pair of stags in heat. Then the Wolf suddenly took a step back and kicked out, his armored boot connecting squarely with the Mountain's codpiece.

The male part of the audience winced as one, reflexively moving their hands to their groins on seeing the terrific blow. Yet Clegane seemed entirely unfazed, and only brought his knees together, trapping the Wolf's foot and leaving him with only one leg to stand on. Balling his fist, Clegane smashed it into the side of the Wolf's head. The Wolf keeled over, dragging the Mountain down with him, but a blow that would have caved in a man's skull only seemed to loosen his tongue despite the blood flowing freely from his mouth.

"So it takes a man pressing on your cock to get you in a fighting mood? I have often heard of the deviant ways of the southerners, this must be one of them! When you joust, do you need to take a horse up the arse beforehand or do you just rub both your little lances together for good luck?"

Despite the clanging of armor as the giants scrambled and flailed to get on their feet, the Wolf's crude mockery rang clear around the arena. Those members of the audience born in colder climes could be seen hiding smirks at the insults heaped upon the Mountain and by extension his Southern liege lords.

With a grunt, Clegane was the first to push himself off the ground. His sword whistled a second later, but the Wolf rolled to the side and the blow only crushed a curiously elongated skull with larger-than-average canines. The Wolf spared the shattered relic a glance before deflecting another wild blow with his sword.-

"I _liked _that skull. One of my better fights, he lasted almost long enough for a man to drain his mjöðr horn."

Both champions now on their feet, they circled each other, the Mountain keeping his gaze fixed on the Wolf's throat, one eye twitching as the Wolf hurled abuse and insult in an endless stream.

"So now you can kill babes in arms, their mothers, and the already-dead. A good start! I heard tell that you can also kill horses if you command them to stay still. What, were you sick the day your swordmaster was to teach you how to kill a man, or were you out in the woods buggering other boys because girls and dogs ran too fast? I wouldn't want my victory attributed to the fact that I was fighting a squire not yet trusted to tell one end of a sword from another!"

"RAAAAARGH!"

Another clash of blades, the Mountain's furious swipes countered with equal force by the Wolf, the one's snarl of hatred countered by the other's infuriating grin.

"I will GUT you like a DOG!"

"Dog? Are you deaf as well as stupid? The name's Wolf, not dog. Ask your whore of a mother, she should know, seeing as she was screaming it in ecstasy all through last night!"

With speed belying his size and weight, Clegane grabbed the Wolf's blade in his gauntlet, forcing it aside and delivering a terrific headbutt, his helmet rattling but staying on his head. Dazed, the Wolf's sword pointed to the ground, though he still had the presence of mind to back away from Clegane's overhand strike. The Mountain's sword smashed against the Wolf's, cleaving it in two. In response, the Wolf bulled into the Mountain, hooking one knee around Clegane's leg until the Mountain fell over in a thunderous crash. Dropping the useless hilt, the Wolf slowly stepped backwards, keeping his gaze locked on the Mountain, one hand reaching behind him as he yelled out in an unknown tongue to his squire.

"Einarr! Sverð!"

Caught in mid-swig, the Wolf's bald underling hurried to the pile of swords, wine running down his bearded chin, grabbing the topmost one and handing it to his master. The Wolf had no sooner grabbed it that an expression of annoyance flitted across his face, turning to face his henchman.

"það er of lítið!"

Running back to the pile, Einarr took another, longer sword and gave it to the Wolf, who merely gave a grunt of approval and turned back to the Mountain, who had risen and was approaching with a murderous expression that only worsened as the Wolf's irrepressible taunts flowed forth once more.

"Up already? Are you sure you wouldn't want to stay flat on your back? A far more restful position befitting the weak and sickly, especially to one so unskilled in fighting as you! Or with your arse in the air, whichever position you find makes it easier to bite pillows!"

"Perhaps bed-rest is better indicated if your healers think it wise to avoid damaging your fragile constitution. Bed-rest, some pretty boys, maybe a horse or two, for I know you southerners appreciate diversity when it comes to stretching your holes. Shall I sheathe my sword and wait for you to get better, or at least walk without assistance? I can wait a week, maybe two."

Snarling, the Mountain rushed at his foe again, but the Wolf gave the Mountain a backhanded slap, a sweeping blow that would have staved in a bull's head but only knocked the helmet from the Mountain's head. The corner ripped a jagged wound on Clegane's cheek as it fell, but he no more seemed to notice than if a fly had landed there. For the first time, the Wolf seemed uncertain, and that second of hesitation was enough for Clegane to drop his sword and swing both hands up and around the Wolf's neck.

On the sidelines, the Mountain's personal apothecary looked in undisguised horror and medical fascination. Only milk of the poppy drunk in vast quantities could explain Clegane's indifference to his own pain, and yet such a dose would have rendered any man unable to breathe, let alone fight a fellow warrior of similar strength.

Driven by animal rage, the Mountain's hands locked around the Wolf's throat in a heartfelt effort to shut him up and actually lifting him bodily for a few seconds, long enough for the Mountain to repeat the Wolf's trick, placing his feet between his foe's, and allowing himself to fall forwards, the Wolf's body cushioning the Mountain's fall. Tyrion Lannister gripped the table next to him for support, catching a triumphant glance from his sister.

Eyes blazing hatred, the Mountain squeezed the Wolf's throat tighter.

"Talk LOUDER you dogfucking CUNT, I can't hear y-"

And the Wolf's fist swung in a short arc, connecting squarely with the Mountain's mouth. Teeth spilled to the ground. The force of the blow sent Clegane sprawling, rolling over onto his back, the Wolf following suit until he was now straddling his foe. The Wolf dropped his head, his mouth level with the struggling Clegane's ear.

"I know your pain, brother."

"The headaches that no potion will cure, the pounding in your temples, the roar of blood in your ears, louder than the storm and the ocean, that only ends with the killing, and always returns..."

"Rejoice, for you have earned your place among His warriors. No slaving in the forges for you but battle, today and tomorrow, until the end of all things!"

With this final cry, the Wolf put his gauntleted fists on either side of the Mountain's head, pointed his thumbs at the Mountain's temples, and _squeezed_. Clegane screamed as neither he nor his victims had ever screamed as the Wolf's thumbs pressed inexorably inwards, breaking skin, snapping muscle and tearing sinew, cracking bone, the Mountain's very eyes briefly swelling out of his head before bursting like overfull wine-skins as the invading fingers poked out of the sockets.

A woman screamed, her hands tearing at her face, as Cersei Lannister beheld justice for her firstborn's murder escape her. Jamie Lannister looked ready to vomit, Tyrion Lannister groped blindly for something, anything to drink, unable to take his eyes off the horror unfolding before him, even Tywin Lannister's mask of lordly indifference cracked at the grisly scene. Oberyn shouted to be heard above the hubbub even as he tried to revive his unconscious wife. A troop of Whitecloaks crowded the arena's entrance, but not one dared enter: what could they do against a monster capable of killing Gregor Clegane, him who could snap their spears and spines as easily as they could snap a dry twig?

Entirely indifferent to the chaos he was causing, his face splattered with blood, the Wolf extracted his thumbs from the Mountain's temples with a wet *pop*, then grabbed the still-twitching champion's breastplate in one hand, holding him up with the other.

Gripping it by both sides of the collar, he took a deep breath, and slowly prized the suit apart by main force as if unshelling a monstrous lobster, revealing a leather jerkin and chainmail shirt beneath. Ripping off the underarmor and retrieving his sword, the Wolf forced it into the Mountain's sternum, pushing until he heard the bone snap, and forced the blade downwards. He then snapped the ribcage back on both sides like grotesque wings and exposed a length of pierced intestine and Clegane's still-beating heart, each desecration punctuated by dark mutterings no one could catch.

Finally, as the Mountain mercifully stopped shuddering and sputtered his last breath, the Wolf's spoke a few words in an unknown tongue again and he swung his sword for the last time, separating Clegane's head and neck in a single blow.

Picking up the horrid trophy, the Wolf then raised one hand to his mouth and bellowed an unearthly summons. It made flesh crawl to hear it, more than one man who had resisted the waves of nausea during the grisly slaughter could hold back no more, and Maester Pycelle clapped his hands to his bleeding ears. Later none could agree to what exactly the noise was, one lord swore it was something like a hound's bark and the blast of a warhorn, another heard a snake's hiss and his lover's voice, an old man the buzzing of flies and the bubbling of a cauldron, a clerk heard the harsh croak of a raven and the sound of a dagger entering a man's back.

In answer to the Wolf's call, the air above the harbor shimmered and tore open, and through the gap entered a monster's head. The Whitecloaks gave up all pretense of bravery at the hideous thing's appearance, which rolled about gnashing its teeth as it advanced, revealing it was in fact the prow of a massive longship, floating in the air as casually as if it were water, its rowers cast from the same barbaric mold as the Wolf, though not one rivaled him in size. The ship approached, turning sideways above the water's edge, and a rope ladder was tossed over the side, the Wolf's squire grabbing the remaining swords and ascending the ladder, taking great care not to drop any. The ship, moving despite the absence of wind, positioned itself so its master had only to grab the ladder.

As he turned his head one last time to the scene of his triumph, holding the Mountain's severed skull, the Wolf saw some spectators who had not fled the scene, their hands clasped in fervent prayer.

"Yes, you would do well to pray to your gods, Westerosi! Know that the true gods of the North are coming for you, and that I, Wulfrik the Wanderer, who now walks between worlds, will offer them this world in tribute! Pray to them that they grant you warriors to defend yourselves, for if this was truly your greatest champion, you deserve no better a death than his."

"Ready your defenses, you gutless, simpering weaklings, sharpen your swords and summon your levies! Give me a good fight when I return to claim these lands in the name of the Gods of Chaos!"

Pulling himself aboard, the Wolf barked out another order and the longship turned again, reentering the hole in the air accompanied by the jeers and obscene gestures of its crew. The gap in the air closed up and was no more. A hush fell over the arena, none wanting to credit what they had just witnessed. But the Mountain's headless corpse, lying in its own blood, was irrefutable proof.

The first to react, as though to bring some semblance of sanity to the world and order to his own mind by stating the obvious, was Maester Pycelle who declared in a shaky voice that the trial was adjourned. None found it in their hearts to contradict him.


	2. Chapter 2

"Nock!"

"Draw!"

"Loose!"

A volley of shafts buzzed skywards, falling into the throng of horses and soldiers below. Ramsay Bolton, Warden of the North, felt a smirk crawl across his face as he looked down from the hilltop his army occupied. This was even easier than he'd expected. Murdering the Stark whelp and prompting the bastard to charge forward unprotected, always so reliably honorable...

The battle was as good as won, both sides' cavalry locked in melee. Already the dead were piled high into makeshift walls. And then, the Wildling footsoldiers opposite (who were saving their arrows for fear of hitting their own brothers) rushed forwards to the bastard's rescue.

With his enemies ensuring their own deaths, Ramsay allowed himself to savor the moment before he ordered his own infantry forth, imagining how he would flay their pet giant alive, what he would do to Sansa and Jon (should he survive), forcing each to watch and participate in turn...

Amid the cacophony of screaming, hoofbeats and clashing metal, it was hard to hear the rending of air behind him. But when a warhorn suddenly blasted behind him and the screams became louder and from the wrong direction, Ramsay turned, his jaw dropping.

An enormous longship had somehow appeared from the middle of nowhere, plowing through his massed footsoldiers and discharging more than a score of warriors clad in furs and spiked armor, bearing circular wooden shields and yelling furiously. The Bolton archers could not fire on so close a target nor could they draw their blades in time, and many of the pikemen were lying crushed by the heavy timbers of the ship. And worse still, every barbarian warrior was enormous, each fighting five to one and butchering the Bolton soldiery regardless of shield or armor, wild-eyed and seemingly unaware of pain or injury. One of them, a giant in skull-adorned black plate carrying a steel tower shield as tall as a young tree, fell upon a pair of mounted knights and cleaved them in half as if they were made of straw.

The initial surprise faded, the Bolton army sprang into action, closing ranks and forming shield walls to resist the barbarians' furious assault, but still losing half a dozen men for each warrior they managed to put down. The huge one then roared out, and despite the surrouding noise the words carried straight into every man's head, causing a lull in the battle.

"Which of you gutless dogs leads this army?"

"Me."

An arrow nocked to his drawn bow, Ramsay was ready to send the arrow into the brute's eye, only waiting for his air of arrogant impatience to be replaced by fear. To his surprise, the stranger looked at his face as if the arrow was not there.

"Very funny. No, really, who leads this rabble?"

Ramsay's face grew dark.

"Your lord must have some very pressing matters to attend to, or be remarkably incompetent if he leaves his boytoy as commander. Admittedly, if _my_ warriors were all of such laughable caliber I wouldn't want to stay around for any battle I threw them in. Is there someone I could speak to who's used to being stabbed with swords and not cocks?"

"I am Ramsay Bolton, and I will not be mocked by the likes of you!"

The shield, decorated with a snarling head, moved faster than anyone could see, and the loosed arrow merely plinked against it. The giant continued as though nothing had happened.

"Who?"

The sounds of battle could be heard downhill, seeming to grow closer. But at that moment they could have been taking place in Yi Ti for all Ramsay cared, his mind slowly consumed with the single drive to kill this oversized and irritating oaf.

"Ramsay Bolton? I'm looking for a Ramsay Snow. Whiny little bitch, said to chase girls as well as boys, does strange things to his dogs... "

Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, the stranger appeared to have hit on an idea.

"Or did your mother lie with both the elder Snow and Bolton at once, and was unsure of which one planted his seed inside her? To look upon you, I confess you make a compelling case for being spawned from a tighter, smellier hole."

The arrow flew, but merely bounced against the giant's breastplate. Ramsay cursed his hand, which had shaken at the moment of the stranger's insult.

"Well then, Snow, Bolton, whichever you are. I am known as the Wolf, and I am here to kill you. Do try and put up a good fight."

Without warning, the Wolf lunged forward, faster than any man that size had any right to be. Ramsay had barely loosed another arrow that grazed his foe's head before the giant was on him, his sword cleaving the bow in half. With the return stroke, the Wolf's sword plunged into the belly of Ramsay's horse, the impact shaking him from the saddle. As he fell, the Wolf's shield jerked forward, driving Ramsay's breath from his lungs, and the Wolf's drove the pommel of his sword into his head. Ramsay collapsed gasping, clutching at his bleeding head as stars danced in his eyes and his ears rang, fighting to bring air back into his lungs.

"Well that was disappointing. Are there none here who can actually put up a fight?"

Slowly turning his head from side to side, the Wolf sighed as he stepped heavily on Ramsay's foot, the squeal of pain masking the crack of bone. Then a Bolton man spoke up.

"I can."

Turning on his heel and ignoring the screech from below, the Wolf looked to the challenger, a thickly-bearded man far taller than his fellows, though still not as tall as the Wolf himself.

"Finally, a true man among these weaklings, willing to defend his lord to the death."

"Fuck you. And fuck him, he's a cunt, just like his father was a cunt. But you killed men of House Umber, now I'll kill you."

Chuckling, the Wolf looked the challenger up and down.

"First intelligent words I've heard all day, apart from Sven Swordeater asking if I wanted herrings or salt meat for breakfast."

Seeing as the man carried only a sword, the Wolf fiddled with the straps on his shield, dropping it to the ground. His challenger looked at it with contempt.

"Think you need a shield to kill the Bolton cunt, but not to kill me?"

"Him I hoped to prove a better battler, but he'll keep. _You_ I will enjoy fighting. Your name, warrior, that I may recall your death when I take your skull in the name of the true gods of the North."

"That's Jon Umber, and I'll use _your_ fucking skull as a drinking cup!"

The two men hurled themselves at each other, Umber ducking under the first strike, but his own blade only meeting armor.

Circling, they continued thrusting and cutting at each other, the Wolf parrying just by moving his armored hand in the way while his warriors bellowed coarsely but made no move to help. The surviving Bolton soldiers cheered encouragement, understanding that the truce would only last as long as their lord did.

"Go for the head!"

"Stick him like a pig!"

"Aye, finish the big bastard, Smalljon!"

The Wolf's face took on a curious expression.

"Smalljon? What, is there a Mediumjon and Greatjon I can kill after this?"

The Smalljon made no reply, instead striving to stab his sword at the Wolf's face, but found it batted aside, the Wolf's infuriating grin widening behind it.

"Or perhaps it's the nickname the first woman you ever bedded gave to your cock, and you kept it ever si-"

Umber's sword thrust forward, only the Wolf's reflexes preventing it from going through his mouth. A shallow cut started bleeding above the giant's cheek, a few strands of hair falling away. Yet far from angering him, this only seemed to loosen his tongue.

"Ah, a good hit! Would you like to forfeit and join the _Seafang's_ crew as barber? You'd only need to work on feast days, even less if they all start taking after Stjön over there!"

A beardless outworlder gave a contorted grimace at being singled out for his perceived deformity. Both combatants readied themselves for another exchange of blows, when an arrow suddenly pierced through the Wolf's beard, embedding itself in his chin. The Wolf drew himself up to his full height like an enraged bear, his face radiating such fury that the Smalljon stepped back, though it was not directed at him.

Surging forward, the Wolf seemed to have forgotten about Umber completely, his full attention fixed on Ramsay Bolton, who had taken a longbow from a corpse and interrupted the duel. He tried to draw his sword, but in two furious strides the Wolf was on him and had backhanded him to the ground.

"You."

Dropping to one knee, the Wolf punched Ramsay with his gauntleted hand. Blood squirted and bone cracked as he punctuated every word with another blow.

"Worthless."

"Cowardly."

"Piss-drinking whoreson stain of liquid dogshit!"

Grabbing Ramsay's head in one hand, the Wolf rammed two fingers up his victims' nostrils, standing and slowly lifting him to eye level.

"You could not give me a fight worthy of a half-blind village idiot armed with a steaming turd. I will give you a death that will be remembered for centuries to come!"

Ripping the arrow from his chin, the Wolf rammed it into and through Ramsay's arm.

The Smalljon darted a glance back to the battle behind. The line seemed a great deal closer than before the Wolf had appeared, and the remaining barbarians were holding still (if making obscene gestures), evidently waiting for their chieftain's order to attack.

Torn between killing the traitor Jon Snow and his wildlings or staying to aid the powerless liege lord he'd only allied with out of necessity (and the possibility of dying against the monster busy brutalizing him), he quickly made his choice. Grabbing his sword, Umber motioned for the rest of the army to follow him. This battle could still be salvaged. Soon only the outworlders and Ramsay were left on the hilltop.

His anger vented, the Wolf cupped Ramsay's broken face in his hands, thumbs moving slowly until they covered his eyes. Ramsay somehow managed to scream louder, but fell silent when the threatening fingers left his head. The Warden's head twisted around to see what his tormentor was staring at.

One of the fallen soldiers had carried on his back a shield with the Bolton sigil of a man being flayed upside-down. It was on this gruesome emblem that the Wolf's gaze fell, and Ramsay let out a whimper as he realized what was in store for him.

"Einarr!"

The Wolf stood up, barking instructions to one of his men. The warrior returned, carrying a splintered pike, but the Wolf shook his head.

"það er of lítið!"

Einarr soon returned with two unbroken pikes which he thrust into the ground in an X shape. Then other barbarians grabbed Ramsay's weakly struggling body, stripped him naked and lashed him to the pikes, head dangling under his body.

The Wolf then stood before him, bending down to pick up a broken knife from a corpse and examining it.

"Rejoice, Snolton, for what you are about to experience will make you an honored guest in hir palace, and good training for once she tires of you."

"My blades are dull, so this might take a while."

Ramsay screamed as the knife cut into his feet, never going more than skin-deep. He screamed louder still as the knife descended to the top of his skull, skin peeling back to expose muscle and sinew. Reaching between Bolton's legs, the giant closed his fist and pulled hard, stuffing Ramsay's mouth and muffling his screeching.

Rolling mad eyes even as the skin was lifted from his face, blood foaming from every orifice, Ramsay's body tore itself apart in agonized spasms. Then the Wolf went to work. Stabbing the intestines with the same knife, he muttered a short prayer even as he reached his hand inside the ribcage to pull out Ramsay's palpitating heart. As the body shuddered one last time, the Wolf continued to mutter under his breath, stopping only after he had ripped Ramsay's skull from the corpse.

"Two down! Three more, and this world is ours."

The outworlders collected their dead and boarded their longship, the ship lifting into the air on a command from its master and disappearing into the same wound between worlds it had used to enter. By the time the victorious Free Folk and knights of the Vale arrived, having routed the Bolton army, there was nothing left on the hilltop but a headless and flayed corpse. The Battle of the Bastards was won, but there was none left alive who could tell the fate of Ramsay Bolton.


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"It's not about what I want. It's what honor demands."

Against a wall of the Winterfell courtroom, Petyr Baelish was unable to prevent a smirk crawling over his face. He'd done it again, driving the wedge of discord between the two sisters . Arya would soon be dead, by Sansa's decree no less, and one less obstacle in his way, one more rung under him on the climb to the Iron Throne. Sansa spoke up, listing the charges in a dull monotone. Bran looked on emotionlessly.

"You stand accused of murder."

"You stand accused of treason."

"How do you answer these charges, … Lord Baelish?"

Baelish blinked. He had heard every word correctly, but he could not make sense of them. Then he saw Arya's own smirk, and in an instant, understood how deeply outfoxed he had been.

The rest was a blur. He barely heard what he was saying, Sansa delivering accusations without pause, refuting his every argument and throwing his own words back in his face, Bran speaking just two sentences, and yet they were enough to send shivers down his spine, Royce smugly refusing to aid or obey him, exulting in his petty moment of triumph. All Baelish's pleading was in vain, and he fell on bended knee, looking with tear-filled eyes at the daughter of the one woman he'd ever loved.

"Thank you for all your many lessons, Lord Baelish. I will never forget them."

Something snapped within him at that moment, the rage at the injustice of the world he'd kept buried for all these years boiling to the surface. The ladder wavered for a brief second. He was already down on one knee, Arya approaching him with blade drawn, and he suddenly lunged forward to the table where his judges were waiting, bulling into Arya, drawing his dagger and holding it to Bran's throat.

"UNBAR THAT DOOR! NOW!"

There were confused shouts, several knights made to draw their swords, but stopped as Baelish's blade drew closer to Bran's neck, his eyes wild and darting. Then to everyone's surprise, Bran spoke up.

"Let him through."

Sansa stared at her brother, but he only repeated the sentence in his flat, bored tone. She gave a slow nod, and the guards at the door grimaced as they opened the heavy door, glaring hatred at the escaping traitor dragging Bran's wheeled chair as his safeguard. As he passed through, Baelish looked behind him and saw a patrol of guards armed with crossbows. Just as he thought of slitting the little freak's throat, one of them saw him and shouted, raising his weapon. Releasing both knife and victim, Baelish felt fear giving him wings as he ran down a side corridor, crossbow bolts thudding in the walls in his wake. Behind him, Bran spoke some words that he was too far away to hear. His mad dash brought him to the courtyard before any of his pursuers.

A squire was just finishing saddling a horse for his master when Baelish tore the reins from the astonished boy's hand, jumped in the saddle and was galloping out the main gate before his feet were in the stirrups, his flight almost checked by the enormous man occupying most of the portcullis. By the time the household troops had descended in the courtyard and ordering their own horses saddled, he was nearly out of arrow range. The swifter knights were all set to pursue him, but found themselves halted by the presence of the oversized stranger in spiked black armor liberally decorated with skulls, who showed no inclination to get out of their way. Even on horseback they had to look up to speak to him.

"Out of the way, knave!"

"I have business with whoever rules this castle. The faster you summon him, the better for you."

The stranger's tone showed that he would brook no argument. Already hands moved to hilts when a voice rang out.

"That would be me. I am Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. Who are you and what do you want?"

The giant gave Sansa an appraising look.

"I have a name, but I am best known in this world as the Wolf. There is a man here by the name of Petyr Baelish. I'm here to kill him. Give him to me."

Ignoring the reactions of the knights, Sansa spoke with no more emotion than if a servant had reported there was cabbage for dinner, every inch the lady of a martial House.

"He's just fled. We are chasing him and bringing him to justice."

"Oh, was that him? Very well."

Turning on his heel, the Wolf walked out of the arched entry as cheerfully as if he had merely asked for directions to the nearest brothel.

The knights looked at one another. Who the hell was this lunatic? One of them, a disturbed expression on his face, whispered a few words in Sansa's ear, and she ordered a general halt before speaking further with him, the knights watching the giant go.

Arya Stark, for who orders were always more of a suggestion, darted out of the castle to catch up to the Wolf, whose every nonchalant stride required five or six steps on her part.

"Hold, Ser Wolf, if that is truly your name."

Without stopping, the Wolf turned his head to look her over.

"A good a name as any for a man, girl."

"I'm not a girl, I'm Arya Stark."

Realizing the giant was not about to stop for her, Arya resigned herself to keeping up with him.

"Why do you want Baelish dead?"

"Because he has been fated to die, and I have been sent to kill him."

"You were paid to kill him? By who?"

Straightaway Arya saw she had hit a nerve. The Wolf stopped, his face contorted with rage.

"_PAY?!_ You think the High Executioner some common cutthroat, sent around the worlds to end lives for _coin?!_"

Arya jumped back, putting her out of reach of the enormous swords the Wolf carried.

"No! No! But it is seldom that we find men willing to do good deeds for free."

The Wolf's expression went from furious to a neutral anger at being delayed.

"Good deeds? I care not for what the man did, I only know that I must kill him."

"And who gave you that order?"

"The gods. The true gods of the north have deemed him worthy of my blade, the third of a set."

Arya stared. That this hairy monster was able and willing to kill Baelish was in no doubt, but since when did the Free Folk use religion as an excuse to attack? His madness was a strange one.

"I have a greater claim than you upon his life. He murdered my father, caused the death of my mother and brothers, ruined our House, deceived and murderered my aunt and uncle, started a war that killed thousands. And I will have revenge."

Now it was Arya's turn to feel the Wolf's gaze on her, and she realized he was not giving her a look of contempt or disbelief, but actively judging her ability to back up her words.

"Did he? I can understand why his life is thus coveted by the gods. Thank you for telling me, little song."

As they walked still, the Wolf barked out an order in an unknown language, a raspy, buzzing roar that sent Arya's skin crawling. Then her jaw dropped.

Floating in midair, a monstrous ship emerged from behind a screen of trees, its head a living thing, twisting and snarling in fury. A man at the stern tossed the Wolf a rope ladder over a wall of circular shields, which he grasped and started climbing. He had not taken more than three steps aboard when he turned around, staring incredulously at the young woman who had just climbed the ladder, still astride the gunwale.

"And why are _you_ on my ship?"

Despite the measured anger in the giant's voice and the unequivocal leers of the crewmen, Arya managed to compose herself.

"If you are here to kill Petyr Baelish, I am here to do it first. My claim is greater than yours."

There was silence as the Wolf stared hard at her. Then he broke out into hoarse laughter.

"HAH! They do make them brave around here. You're the first of these Southerners to try and follow me or stop me on my quest."

"I am no Southerner, I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, my father was Warden of the North before Baelish betrayed him and had him executed!"

Following this passionate outburst, Arya drew her dagger. This did not seem to impress the Wolf in the slightest, for he merely shrugged, skulls clacking against his armor.

"I daresay his plotting has killed a great many fathers. Why should yours merit more vengeance than another's? Should I go around collecting all the orphans he's made and give them a chance to avenge themselves? Could get a bit crowded, you might want to consider stoning him instead. One rock per child or pouting adolescent and everybody gets their chance."

Arya felt the sarcasm rather than heard it, a dull thudding in her ears as a killing urge grew in her stomach. Leaping sideways, she held the knife to the throat of one of the sailors, a bald and bearded man.

"I will kill him if you don't take me to Baelish!"

"Can you row?"

Dumbfounded, Arya nearly let the blade slip.

"Can, you, row? You kill him, you take his place. Weregild won't get my ship moving any faster. Think about it before you make the situation a loss for everyone involved."

Troubled, Arya glanced at her would-be victim for a second. The man's eyes were distant, and his expression neutral, as if his imminent throat-slitting was of no bad consequence. The face of a man who might welcome death. What manner of madmen and fools crewed this ship? She lowered her knife.

"Einarr!"

The Wolf barked a few words to the crewman, who winced and nodded. Arya took a step back, thinking as to how an assassin might make herself respected when surrounded by men with no fear of death.

"Watch self, girl."

Arya turned. A man wearing a wolf's pelt decorated with dark feathers and snakeskins and holding a long staff bearing a crucified raven was speaking to her, a horrific puckered scar on each cheek.

"Jarl Strong Wolf not kill you now, busy other people to kill, but keep annoy him, you die. Slow."

He spoke haltingly, as if unfamiliar with the language, in sharp contrast to his master's flawless speech.

"Who are you?"

The man grinned, Arya wincing as the mass of scar tissue rippled and convulsed.

"Am Sven Swordeater. Seer of Jarl Strong Wolf, serve all gods like Jarl, but mostly Changer."

Changer? Was that another name for the Stranger? But the Wolf claimed to be on a murderous mission from the Old Gods of the North, why would they worship one of the Seven?

"And if I ask that he take me to the man he said he'd kill, will he do so?"

The sorcerer shrugged.

"Can try. Only very brave ask Jarl Wolf, only very lucky get what want. You brave, board longship without ask. Feel lucky, girl?"

Arya looked to the Wolf, who was laughing at the man called Einarr. Einarr did not seem to get the joke. Turning around, he headed towards the prow, the crew taking their place at the oars. There were no benches, each man sat on a large sea-chest that presumably held his possessions. Pulling in unison while one of their comrades beat a small drum, the ship rose higher in the air, the Wolf's gaze sweeping the land below for his quarry. Suddenly the living figurehead gave a hideous howl, and the ship turned of its own accord, heading south.

Taking a deep breath, Arya walked quickly through the rowers to the prow, making sure to stay well out of arm's reach. Then she spoke up.

"Ser Wolf... Strong."

The Wolf, disturbed from his survey of the horizon, snarled back.

"What _now?!_"

"I have a request to make of you, as you deny me my vengeance."

"Do you now. You insult me, sneak aboard my ship, and then make demands of me?"

Arya held his gaze. In some strange, detached way, she realized she held no fear of this man or his crew despite them clearly being hardened killers, but that she might not be there to witness Baelish's death.

"A request."

"And what request would this be? To stand idly by and let you kill the man while I wait for the task given me by the gods to be performed by another? To break his limbs and let you deal the finishing blow, adding cowardice to blasphemy?"

"No."

Arya unsheathed the Valyrian steel dagger she had intended to use on Baelish.

"This is the dagger he used to bring ruin to me and my kin. He held it to my father's throat when he betrayed him. All I ask is that you kill Baelish with it."

The Wolf watched her closely, but again she held his gaze. Nodding once, he took the dagger and examined it. Now uncomfortably aware that she was one weapon short on a ship full of unfriendly and leering men, she crouched slightly while he continued his inspection, her hand hovering close to Needle's hilt.

"Done."

"And you will let me be there when you kill him?"

Another long look from the Wolf which she bore stoically.

"Hmph. All right. You may as well bear witness to his death. Never did like traitors much."

Resuming his watch, the Wolf leaned on the prow, looking at the snowy expanse below.

Far below, Petyr Baelish was still galloping away from Winterfell, but the initial rush was now over and he realized he had to slow down or risk falling. He twisted in the saddle. There were no pursuers that he could see at that moment, but it was best not to trust to chance, even though he had always been skilled at moving great distances in a short time. He dismounted and led the horse to a small grove off the main road.

Tying up his horse out of view of the road, he sat back against a tree to take stock of the situation. He judged it difficult but not hopeless. He had slipped a few rungs on the ladder, but he would get his revenge and his prize. Smirking to himself, Baelish snuggled himself tighter in his cloak and fell asleep. Soon he was dreaming, his breathing as regular as the noise thrumming through his head. But the noise grew louder, and he woke with a start, realizing the noise was no dream but a rhythmic shouting, accompanied by a dull boom. His eyes darted left and right, but he could not find its source. The sound grew louder still, until Baelish realized it was coming from above his head. Looking up, he put a hand against the tree to stop himself from falling over. Up in the sky was an enormous longship, its sail unfurled and its oars swinging regularly to move it through the air.

As he stared at the thing, he realized the noise that had woken him was the rowers grunting in unison as they propelled the ship forward. And as it swept past him, he saw the prow, carved into a horrid shape, suddenly twist around and glare straight at him. Figures were now visible on the deck, all looking in his direction and pointing.

Whoever or whatever these people were, he felt they had no friendly intentions towards him. Hastily untying his horse, he slowly led it under the cover of the trees, the infernal shouting following him as the ship moved closer to earth. Panic seized him when he recognized Arya on the ship, and he urged the horse into a gallop on the road even at the risk of breaking his neck.

But there was no escaping that ship, which moved as if the wind itself were at its command. Soon the overpowering sound of the rowers' drum drowned out his own heartbeat, and he saw its shadow pass over him. Sneaking a glance to the side, he saw the ship leisurely keeping pace with him, Arya glaring daggers at him and a giant in black skull-covered armor looking at him with anticipation. Finally the inevitable happened, and the horse, already foaming at the mouth, collapsed under him. Baelish was sent rolling in the snow, and had not yet stopped when a loud crunch told him someone had jumped from the ship.

Frantically he got up and had nearly taken a step before a vast hand descended upon his neck and held him fast.

"Petyr Baelish, or Littlefinger. I am called the Wolf by some, the Inescapable by others. Today you die."

Baelish twisted his neck around. The Wolf was looking him up and down, clearly displeased.

"Oh come now, you're even more of a disappointment than the last one I killed. No weapon even, and if you had magic you'd have used it by now. Bah."

"Einarr! Sverd!"

The Wolf's henchman jumped down from the ship, carrying a light blade. He gave it to Baelish, whose hands were shaking so badly he dropped it. The Wolf sighed, and forced him to his knees to pick it up.

"More used to putting daggers in people's backs, from behind, under flag of truce and in the dark, are you? Get up, you flower-blooded runt, get up and fight for once in your life! Nothing sadder than a schemer when things don't go just as planned."

The Wolf held up Baelish before standing him upright in the snow, then taking a few steps back.

"They say even a cornered rat can put up a fight... Let's see if you can fight as well as a rat, little Fingers!"

Something squirmed in Baelish's gut, and he felt a rage wash over him that he had forgotten for decades. The same fury he had felt all those years ago, when he had first challenged Brandon Stark for the hand of Catelyn Tully and lost miserably, a loss that had festered within him, gnawing at him, and resulted in one of the greatest wars Westeros had ever known. How many tens of thousands died because he could not give up his love?

He ran forward, screaming, sword held high, and he struck again and again at his foe. Chips of bone flew as the blade fell until Baelish finally fell to his knees, utterly exhausted and panting, the sword dropping from his numb hands.

"Are you done?"

Baelish lifted his head. The blinding rush of battle had worn off, and his eyes widened at the realization of what had happened. The Wolf had not drawn his blade or even moved a muscle, content with letting Baelish make a fool of himself by attacking in ineffectual frenzy, inflicting no more damage than a kitten. Arya, who had joined the handful of warriors on the ground, could no longer restrain herself and collapsed into hysterical laughter.

Paralyzed by fear, Baelish's eyes welled up with tears, prompting a look of disgust from the Wolf.

"Not again... Is this truly the best this world has to offer? Am I to give my masters the skulls of weaklings and cowards?"

The Wolf's hands moved to Baelish's throat, then over his eyes. A sudden memory flashed into Baelish's head.

"No! No! Can... serve you!"

"What?"

"I can... I can serve you! I remember you now, from King's Landing, you killed the Mountain and said you'd return to conquer the seven kingdoms!"

The thumbs relieved their pressure. Baelish's eyes were wide, his voice squeaky and desperate. The Wolf shrugged.

"And I see that my warnings were so well-heeded that he was _still_ the closest thing to a challenge this world has offered me. And what help can you provide that would justify my sparing you?"

"Ser Wolf, NO! He's trying to-"

Without even looking back, the Wolf's voice drowned out Arya' interruption.

"You, girl, are a stowaway, and the only reason I haven't thrown you to the men is because they row like drunken swine once they've drained their balls."

Arya fell silent, in shock at both the insult and the threat.

The Wolf's head turned to look Baelish in the eye.

"You were saying?"

Baelish's confidence returned to his voice. Now he was in his element again. Whatever otherwordly magics the barbarian had access to, whatever strength his immense body gave him, they could not compare to his own skill in pushing pawns across the board, in playing with people's emotions to get them to do what he wanted as easily as a whore obtained money from a man. The ladder had wobbled for a brief moment, but was back under his feet.

"I can tell you the weaknesses of every kingdom, where to strike and who to kill first. I can give you spies, informants and traitors, get you maps, tell you where the richest plunder can be had! Just spare my life, and I will serve you unquestioningly, Lord- er, Wolf!"

Baelish looked pleadingly at the Wolf, who remained unimpressed.

"A promising tale indeed. Anything else you want out of me, as a reward for your good behavior?"

Baelish fell silent for a moment. It was working, the brute was even easier to manipulate than he'd thought!

"I want... Sansa! Give her to me, and I swear I shall serve none other than you!"

"Who?"

"You won't have her!"

Slipping easily past the crewmen's attempts to restrain her, Arya dashed forward, her blade flashing. Baelish's eyes widened in horror, then spun as the Wolf rotated his body, Needle jabbing through his heavy leather cloak and ringing against his armor. In his free hand the giant swept up Arya, his gauntleted hand closing around her neck.

"I will not say this again: Do not interrupt, girl."

Then he turned back to Baelish.

"Who is this Sansa?"

"Sansa Stark, she is... Everything I did was for her, everything! And I would rather let the world burn than see her taken from me!"

The Wolf looked at Baelish for a moment, his expression unchanged, while Arya struggled furiously in his iron grip.

"Very well."

Both his victims let out gasps of surprise and indignation respectively, but he went on.

"You would serve me. Then you would serve my gods as well? Will you obey their will and their purpose without question, pledge your life in servitude to the true gods of the North?"

The gods of the North? Baelish struggled to remember what he could of the wildlings' ways, desperate to please his new master and hoping to loosen his grip on his throat. Best to overplay the craven coward now than to anger him and be killed on the spot. He had not escaped death at Arya's hands in a dim courtroom to be slain in so ignominious a manner.

"Er- gladly, Lord Wolf!"

The sycophantic tone did nothing to improve the Wolf's expression.

"You speak without asking who they are or what they do. What can you tell me of Chaos, Fingers?"

Baelish was struck dumb. What on earth could the giant mean? Every man in this world was motivated by his own gain, his own urges or, for idealistic fools like the Starks, by their code of conduct, but chaos for chaos' sake was unheard of.

"Chaos is... chaos is the path for men to achieve greatness. It creates opportunities, openings that can be exploited by those who see them."

Without realizing it, his speech gained in passion as he went on. Though he had often explained his philosophy, it was not often he was asked to develop it further.

"It is a ladder, an eternal climb upwards with slips and falls, but always renewed. Only fools and the wifully blind cling to their rung, so afraid to lose what they have that they cannot see how much more they could take."

The Wolf looked at Baelish a long while, then a slow grin broke out over his face.

"I can see why the Raven wanted you for himself. Rarely have a seen a more obvious cheater, backstabber and traitor. You will go far in the Crystal Labyrinth. Now-"

The giant stood up straight, holding both of his victims at arm's length.

"-as you have agreed to serve the same gods I do, it is only fitting that I make their will towards you clear."

"I was sent here to find you, to duel you to the death, and should I prove myself the better fighter, to extract several trophies from you. Now, we can both tell it is obvious this battle would be entirely hopeless on your side. I should judge you were never a strong lad, were you? Ever won- ever _been_ in a fight?"

Baelish felt himself reddening. It was true that he had long ago abandoned all pretense of martial virtue, but something in the Wolf's words seemed to crawl under his skin and make his knuckles itch for a sword, if only to prove him wrong.

"So, the will of the gods must be respected, and yet it is forbidden for me to slaughter a defenseless weakling and parade it as though I had slain the Everchosen himself. No, we shall look upon a clearer sign."

"Are you a betting man, Fingers? Do you often trust your luck to see you through the times of tumult and land on your feet?"

Baelish felt the situation starting to escape him again. But before he could answer, the Wolf continued.

"This is what will happen. I will tie you to a tree. Then I will walk nine and ninety steps away from you, blindfold myself, and nine times try to kill you. If after the last attempt you are still alive, I shall consider it the Raven's will that you are to live and serve me as you have promised."

Baelish's eyes lit up with hope and despair, but Arya's were full of fury.

"NO! He murdered my father as surely as if he'd swung the blade! He-"

"Yes, yes, you told me what he did, and I tell you that I do not care. It is not for me to question the will of the gods, and if this man's fate had not been tied to my own I should not care what you did to him or he to you."

"Einarr!"

After an order from the Wolf, his lieutenant approached carrying a strip of sailcloth, followed by half a dozen of the ship's crew carrying heavy ropes. He presented it to his master, who only sighed.

"það er of lítið!"

Einarr returned to the ship and came back with a longer cloth, while the smaller cloth was used to gag Arya despite her struggles. Baelish, still thinking feverishly as to how he could get out of this predicament, noticed the resigned expression on the lieutenant's face as his chieftain berated him. Downtrodden, beleaguered, taken for granted... with the right kind of push, he might very well be the inside man Baelish would need to escape the Wolf's clutches.

The Wolf dropped Arya to the ground and made for a tree at the edge of the road, where his men pushed Baelish to his knees before securely tying him against the tree, face rubbing against the bark. Despite his struggles, Baelish could not loosen them, and it even seemed they cut tighter into his flesh with every pull. There was no escaping a sailors' knots.

He heard them pulling away, the Wolf stepping slowly and deliberately until the crunch of his footsteps in the snow faded away.

Baelish, alone with his thoughts, suddenly regretted his choice. Of course, the brute was likely to miss at a hundred paces and blindfolded, relying more on his strength than any finesse, but that did not make him any happier. He winced as there was a clang behind him as something metallic bounced off a rock, followed by a cheer from the barbarians behind. The Wolf had been carrying a dozen swords around his waist, was he _throwing_ them?!

Another clang, this time further away, and another cheer. Were they counting the number of blades being thrown at him, or were they calling out corrections?

A whistling sound and a thud, this time in front of him. Baelish scraped his nose on the bark as he cringed at the sound. Three misses.

Another, closer this time. Four. Baelish's heart seemed intent on rising out of his chest.

Another. Five. His clothes were soaked with sweat.

Another. Six. He could not stop himself from whimpering softly.

The tree shuddered and Baelish screamed as a sword crashed next to it, the audience whooping and cheering. The Wolf bellowed something in their harsh tongue. Was he chastising them for unwittingly guiding him, or for sarcastically applauding his near-success? Only two more.

The eighth one was slow in coming. Was the Wolf trying to remember his last throw, getting the conditions exactly right so as to end him so close to salvation? What depths of cruelty would this monster sink to? It was a relief to hear another whistling sound and hear the sword sail past him into the woods.

As he heard the thud, hope erupted in Baelish's chest. Just one more miss, and he would be free, free to plot and scheme again, back on the eternal ladder, carefully aiming this barbarian at his enemies before removing him, and then, take the Iron Throne, and with Sansa at his side he would-

A series of crunching sounds behind him, and suddenly the shock of pain as a blade entered his back between his shoulders.

He screamed, feeling his head being twisted to see both the Wolf and Arya, unblinded and ungagged, the Wolf's hand still grasping the dagger's handle as he pulled it out and sliced through Baelish's throat.

"I did warn you that I am inescapable."

Hideous gurgling was the only answer, and the last thing Petyr Baelish saw were the unblinking eyes of Arya Stark. Just before the darkness took him, he saw her smile.

As the last breath left the corpse, the Wolf wiped the dagger clean on Baelish's coat, muttering words in no language Arya knew. He then pulled his sword out of the ground and proceeded to carefully cut the body from the tree and desecrate it, stabbing it in the gut, ripping out its heart and finally decapitating it. The gruesome ritual performed, he walked back to his ship, his crew already gathering up the fallen swords.

Arya followed him as the sun started to set.

"Why did you lie to him?"

"Lie? I told him I would try to kill him nine times."

"But you threw eight swords at him before you took off your blindfold."

"The ninth blade succeeded, for it is the number of the Raven God, and it is his way to remove his pawns when it serves his purposes. It is only fitting that I betrayed him in his moment of greatest hope, just as I battled the warrior and flayed the torturer."

"But he was telling the truth. If you'd given him my sister, I really think he would have helped you as he said. So why didn't you spare him?"

"Why didn't I take him up on his offer to reveal the weak points in the defenses of every city, the competent commanders to assassinate before a battle, the richest plunder, the best ways to defeat entire kingdoms with minimal effort and bloodshed on my part, to offer me the world on a silver platter?"

"… Yes."

The Wolf turned to look Arya in the eye, speaking with absolute sincerity.

"Where's the fun in that?"

There was an uncomfortable silence as Arya pondered the mindset of a man who would deliberately refuse an easy yet underhanded way, not for the stain on his honor but for the challenge of it. Like a dark mirror of her own father.

"Why are you telling me all this? Are you planning to kill me afterwards?"

"Not right now. The gods have not spoken to me of your fate, and it may be you play no part in their plans, or are simply considered unworthy of my sword. As for why I am telling you, I had left no survivors last time, and from the coward's reaction, my first foray into this world went so unnoticed that he only remembered me at the moment he needed to save his skin."

Grabbing the rope ladder, the Wolf paused one last time to look at Arya.

"We may meet again, girl. There are two more yet to sacrifice before Chaos comes to this world. I trust you have no claim on their lives either."

In the fading light, Arya watched him climb the rope ladder after the last of his crew, staring at the ship until it had disappeared into a hole in the air that closed up behind it, before realizing she was alone at night in the forest, her dagger still in the Wolf's hands.

Her return to Winterfell the next day was marked by much discussion and speculation, but while she confirmed that the fleeing Baelish had been brought to justice for his crimes at last, only her siblings were told of the ignoble death of Petyr Baelish of the Fingers, Lord Protector of the Vale, mastermind of the War of the Five Kings.


	4. Chapter 4

In the great hall of Winterfell, the trial of Jaime Lannister, sole representative of Cersei's promised army, was well underway. Each of the judges had played their role as plaintiff and witness against the Kingslayer, and now his life was in their hands. To his surprise, Brienne of Tarth came to his defense, and her testimony seemed to make Sansa's conviction falter.

Before she could render her judgement aloud, a Dothraki warrior entered the courtroom in a rush. He had scarcely gone to his khaleesi and started whispering in her ear that the door of the courtroom was slammed back with great force. The audience turned to the sound, and pulled back in shock as an enormous man entered the room, straightening up as he passed the door. His blackened plate armor was adorned with spikes and skulls, a cloak of hairy leather reached to his calves, a massive collar of brass wrapped around his neck, and a crown of intertwined thorns surrounded his crest of hair.

Seemingly oblivious to the impression he caused, the giant made his way nonchalantly through the guards, effortlessly shoving aside those who lacked the presence of mind to get out of the way. Once past the guards, his gaze swept the court, resting briefly on Brienne, then lighting up in recognition. Jamie Lannister looked at him with undisguised horror, but the newcomer had eyes only for Sansa, advancing on the table and leaning on it with both hands despite the ominous creak.

"You I remember. Lady Stark of Winterfell. I have come to offer the aid of myself and my warband against the cold dead, on one condition."

Sansa had to crane her neck to look up at him, but her composure never wavered.

"Ser Wolf. I welcome your aid, but what is this condition?"

"That the Night King is mine to kill, his skull mine to claim afterwards."

Muttering filled the room, but the Wolf took no notice. If anything, he seemed to enjoy being the center of attention.

"Kill the Night King? We don't have enough dragonglass to make a sword for one your size."

The Wolf looked at Jon Snow.

"Never heard of dragonglass, but I came prepared."

One of the many swords the Wolf carried about his waist was far larger than the rest, the sheath covered in unpleasant-looking runes that seemed to move the longer one looked at them.

Holding sword and scabbard over his head, the giant slowly started unsheathing the weapon. An unearthly scream filled the courtroom and fire danced along the exposed blade, before he rammed it back inside.

"I won't show you the whole thing, the little bastard inside gets moody if he doesn't get something to bite into."

He slapped the sword as a man would cuff a disobedient child, and a snarl was heard in response.

"But this sword has gone through more than fivescore of the cold dead, and I intend to add another to its tally."

Sansa spoke up again, unaffected by the flashy display.

"And if he kills you, he will raise as one of his. I have no reason to doubt your skill, but do not want them used against us."

The Wolf seemed to find the prospect of defeat very amusing.

"Hah! My body and soul are not his to take, they belong to far more powerful than he. But if it will reassure you..."

The Wolf turned to look at Danaerys' bodyguards, focusing on the one holding Jaime's weapon.

"You, with the sword. Strike me."

Grey Worm started. He looked at his queen, who nodded, and stepped forward, drawing the blade and looking up at the Wolf, whose only unarmored part was his head.

"Right in the face."

The Wolf even turned his head to the side, jaw slack, to all appearances intent on letting the Unsullied strike unhindered. Perhaps to prove his reflexes? Did he intend to catch the sword as it came up?

Grey Worm thrust the sword upwards into the Wolf's cheek. The point penetrated deeply, blood running down the blade, but the Wolf simply turned his head and used a hand to pull the sword away from himself, slicing through his cheek like a shark through water.

There was expectant silence, and the Wolf slowly made a full circle, allowing the onlookers to notice that his flesh was starting to knit itself back together. The crown of thorns around his head seemed to contract. Soon there was not even a scar to be seen.

The Wolf chewed exaggeratedly a few times as if to verify that his mouth was back to normal, his jaw making a cringe-inducing popping sound, then looked back to Grey Worm, nodding in approval.

"Good strength in those arms. Good speed. But that's the last blood I intend to let you draw without retaliation."

Turning back to Sansa, he went on.

"This will not be the first time a moving-dead king falls to my blade, though this climate is far removed from the burning deserts of Khemri. It'll be a sad day when a corpse-emperor can defy the will of the Gods!"

"I will not be defeated by the Night King, no matter his skill or his magics. I have taken steps- expensive steps, they amounted to nearly three seasons' worth of plunder- to ensure that this will be so. My warriors will do battle with the hordes of the dead, I will kill their desiccated leader and take his head. Do you accept my terms?"

Sansa shared a glance with Danaerys and her half-brother. Danaerys spoke first.

"You ask for very little for such a task. No payment for you-"

Sansa, who remembered what Arya had told her of the Wolf's reaction to being thought a sellsword, tensed up.

"-or your men?"

The Wolf seemed considerably less angry at the question than Sansa feared.

"My men and I fight for glory in the name of the Gods. As for payment, what we kill we plunder and split up. I have already told them that I forfeit my two shares of whatever gold, weapons and trinkets the dead might carry."

Danaerys nodded.

"Your condition is that the Night King be left to you. I-"

She shot a glance at Sansa and Jon. She was their queen, but this was a decision for which she wanted their consent and approval.

"We, too, have a condition."

"And what would that be?"

"You would place yourself under the command of the lady of Winterfell?"

The Wolf gave a little shrug.

"Until I get what I came for. Then I will leave."

"And will you place yourself under the command of her queen?"

The giant looked puzzled.

"Who?"

Danaerys gave her handmaiden a nod. Missandei stood up and took a step forward.

"You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains!"

The Wolf seemed to digest the information, looking the Dragonqueen up and down. Then he inhaled deeply as he drew himself up to his full height, and roared out his own list of achievements with equal gusto, adding sweeping gestures, chest-thumpings and pumping clenched fists such that an actor would have wept to behold.

"And I am **Wulfrik** the World-Walker, the Wanderer, the High Executioner of Chaos, the Inescapable, the Eternal Challenger, the Strong Wolf, champion of the Sarl and bane of champions, slayer of giants, dragons, beastmen, lamassu, yhetees and trolls, master and captain of the _Seafang_, killer of Torgald king of the Aeslings, bringer of true death to the Tomb-Lord Khareops, boiler of the witch Baba Yar, breaker of the revenant jarl Unfir, burner of the Hashut-worshiper Khorakk, impaler of the Forsaken wretch Fraener, butcher of the traitor Zarnath, murderer of the weakling backstabber Sveinbjorn of the Aeslings, ruin-bringer to Vinglundr of the Sarl, ravager of Dronangkul, of Wisborg, of Ormskaro, and a thousand other cities besides!"

From his tone it was clear each of these was a great accomplishment, a heroic feat that would ring throughout the ages and spoken of with admiration and awe, inciting dreams of martial glory and fame in listeners of all ages and conditions. It was a shame no one had ever heard of them.

Even Jon, who had lived among the Free Folk long enough to be considered one by friend and foe alike, looked completely baffled at the enumeration of the people and places the Wolf claimed to have killed or looted.

The Wolf's tirade had not yet finished echoing around the chamber when Sansa noticed Danaerys seemed to be preparing a comeback. The tension called for diplomacy. She spoke up to avoid a clash of egos.

"We will need every warm body we can find. How many men do you bring?"

"Two score. Seven of them Crow Brothers."

The name evidently carried some weight in his view, but they too were completely unknown, since only the Night's Watch were ever called by such a term, and not by their friends.

"And a little surprise for the cold dead."

"And what would this surprise be?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise, now would it? Especially if one of you dies early and rats it out to his new master."

Sansa decided not to argue the point.

"Very well. Our food stores should be able to feed you for tonight."

"No need, we have two mammoth legs. Brought one for baggage and the battle, but it didn't make it through the Warp in one piece. Had to drag the damn things and the rest through three miles of snow."

Sansa looked at the others.

"… Then I have no objection."

Still no rejection from the other two, who seemed more preoccupied with getting the Wolf out of the way.

"Then it is agreed."

"Ser Wolf! Will your men obey the directions of our commanders?"

"Doubt it. They don't speak your tongue anyway, but they know well enough what they need to kill and what they need to let live."

Turning on his heel, the giant headed for the door without waiting for dismissal, boding ill for any theoretical obedience on his part. The Wolf had scarcely left the hall when Jaime rushed to the table. Tyrion flinched as Grey Worm had the sword at the back of Jaime's neck in an instant, but the Kingslayer didn't seem to notice.

"Your Grace, you cannot trust this man, he's-"

Danaerys, already displeased at her authority being openly flouted by the Wolf, interrupted immediately.

"_You_ are still on trial, Lannister. You will speak when spoken to."

"The hell with the trial! That monster butchered the Mountain, toyed with him like a cat with a mouse. We have no hope of killing him if he's inside with us, keep the bastard outside the walls!"

At a sign from their queen, the Unsullied guards dragged Jaime back from the table. Sansa cast a glance at Tyrion, who was looking with concern at his brother. Catching Sansa's eye, he nodded vigorously to confirm Jaime's worries.

"Him we can deal with later. What we will do with you has yet to be determined."

Danaerys looked at Sansa, who looked at Brienne. Sansa sighed, and looked down. She would not order the Kingslayer's death. Danaerys looked at Jon. His own father had been killed thanks to the Kingslayer's efforts, surely he wanted revenge more than his half-sister?

"What does the Warden of the North say?"

Jon shrugged noncommittally, looking more tired than ever, though clearly he was less than pleased to see Jaime walk away without retribution for his crimes against the Starks.

"We'll need every man we can get."

So it was settled. The Kingslayer, her father's murderer, would go free, at least for the night. Danaerys briefly entertained the idea of assigning Grey Worm as Jaime's bodyguard, instructing the Unsullied to backstab the Lannister when he least expected it. Her heart fought her mind, and lost.

"Very well."

Grey Worm returned the Kingslayer's sword to its owner, glaring all the while. Jaime bowed.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

* * *

As the court adjourned and the audience returned to its duties, Danaerys left the courtroom in high bad temper. Her chance at revenge was gone for entirely sensible reasons, the indisputable logic of which only angered her further, the allies she thought would support her decision without question had let her down, and of course there was the humiliation inflicted by the Wolf.

She cast an eye over the main gate, where similarly-dressed but slightly smaller men were dragging in an enormous metal crate on wooden runners, two hairy mammoth legs lashed to the top. One of the marauders hacked off a chunk of frozen muscle and slid it through a hatch in the crate.

With increased displeasure she saw the Free Folk and even some Dothraki bloodriders did not share her distaste for the Wolf's underlings, the womenfolk of the North especially casting admiring looks on the muscular crewmen.

Behind them, beyond the gate stood half a dozen men in tattered furs, not as tall as the others but immensely fat and diseased-looking, their pale and greenish skin protruding in hanging flabs from their tattered clothing, but they did not seem to mind the cold. One carried a rusty scythe like a banner while the others carried their polearms with no less gravitas. Was this the help brought by the Wolf?

"Khaleesi!"

Danaerys' head snapped around. One of her Dothraki was running to her.

"Khaleesi, the barbarian. He... He... your dragons, they..."

The messenger did not even finish his sentence before Danaerys was running towards the pen where her children were kept.

* * *

There was no need to ask if the Wolf had passed by, the stunned guards were only just picking themselves off the ground. The Dragonqueen rushed past them, her heart hammering. There was the unmistakable bulk of the oversized oaf, looking up at the dragons, who were... sitting up and looking at him?

Danaerys stared in shock. Drogon made a series of chirps and growls followed by a hoarse grunt, the meaning of which she did not understand but recognized as sounds he and his brothers made to communicate with each other. A similar noise bounced around the castle walls, but she refused to believe her ears. No human throat could produce such sounds, and yet the outlander was making them as easily as if he were speaking.

"What are you doing to my children!?"

She stormed up to the Wolf. Behind him, the dragons stood up. She was pleased to see they were looking at her and not him, whatever spell he had cast over them had not shaken the bonds between Targaryen and dragon. But his reply stopped her cold.

"Why're you starving them?"

"_What?!_"

"Why're you starving them? The big one says he only ate man-flesh once, and you thrashed him for it."

"You... I..."

His face showed no contempt, no sarcasm. To all appearances he was both genuinely concerned with the dragons' well-being and deemed humans to be acceptable foodstuff for them. Aware that she was losing a battle, Danaerys opted for the ice-queen treatment, reforming her expression into an austere expression of cold majesty.

"We agreed to your help for the battle, not in how to care for my children. Leave. Now."

The Wolf looked at her, then behind him. The dragons were looking at their mother, Drogon seeming to pick up on the hostility, for he opened his maw wide. Turning his head back, the Wolf smirked.

"I can see why the gods took an interest in you, Dragonqueen-stormchild-fireproof-whatever the rest was. I look forward to seeing what you'll do with these two."

The Wolf left with a final growl-chirp directed at the dragons. Danaerys watched him go before embracing her scaled children, hugging their heads tightly as if to counteract whatever charm the Wolf had cast upon them.

* * *

The Lannister brothers sat on a bench, celebrating their reunion and the happy outcome of the trial when the Wolf walked past. He looked absentmindedly at the pair, frowning as he paused and then ambled over to them, his face thoughtful. Jaime's hand was halfway to his sword when the giant spoke, pointing a sausage-sized finger at the Imp.

"I know you from somewhere?"

Tyrion hesitated for only a second, though his throat was dry.

"You once defended me in a trial by combat."

"Trial by... Oh yes, that one."

There was an awkward silence, broken by the Wolf.

"You're welcome."

This was more than Tyrion could bear with any semblance of calm.

" _'Welcome' ?!_"

"You're alive, aren't you?"

"No thanks to your antics! Do you know the living hell my life has been since your interference?!"

The Wolf's expression of complete indifference to Tyrion's tribulations only pushed him further.

"My sister tried to have me killed in my cell, I killed my own father, I was trapped in a box for _weeks_, imprisoned, nearly killed a hundred times over! If Martell had fought the Mountain I'd be in a very different and _far_ more restful position right now."

The giant looked at him with something approaching respect on his face. Clearly only one thing Tyrion had said had registered with him.

"Did you now? What with? Poison or with hired swords?"

"... With a crossbow. While he was shitting."

"HAH! I like you, halfling!"

The Wolf's arm rose and crashed down on Tyrion's shoulder, though it seemed the brute had the presence of mind to check the blow to avoid killing or breaking bones. While Tyrion tried to get the air back in his lungs, the giant turned to Jaime.

"And you? Your sister try to kill you too? Strange, pretty boy like you ought to be dead of an angry husband or a jilted lover!"

Jaime Lannister forced a rictus on his face. The Mountain's slayer seemed in a chatty rather than murderous mood, though during his duel with Clegane he had been quite adept at doing both at the same time. It was a strange effect, where even his jovial tone slowly incited the listener to slap him in the face.

"Not... quite. I called her bluff."

"Har! Quite a family you've got there! And she just let you go, dropping the matter out of the goodness of her heart?"

Jaime shook his head. Another awkward silence filled the air, but if the Wolf noticed or even cared he certainly did not show it, as if moving to another subject once the previous one had lost all interest. He seemed to search his memory for a time.

"Why were you on trial again? I remember the would-be challenger telling me about it, something about a murder. Though if you killed your own father on the shitter afterwards, I don't see that there was any need to prove your guilt."

Tyrion stared hard at the Wolf, his hands trembling slightly. He spoke once he'd mastered himself.

"It was for the murder of my nephew, which I had nothing to do with, though I would have gladly served the poison myself."

"Oh yes, that was it. I take it that's why your sister wanted you dead. Not the type to hop back in bed and churn out another nephew, is she?"

It was amazing how every word to come pouring out of the Wolf's mouth seemed calculated to inflame tempers without any obvious effort or pretense of subtlety. The man could have started a fight just by bidding greetings, and indeed, perhaps that was his aim whenever he spoke to someone. Thankfully, Jaime intervened in time.

"No. Because she couldn't find the murderer, she took out her grief on Martell. Started a war with Dorne by poisoning him, and in retaliation, his wife murdered my d- my niece."

The giant's attention was focused solely on Jaime, but did not seem to have noticed the slip. Tyrion slid to the side to avoid being hit by a swinging skull on a chain, its jaw filled with entirely too many teeth to be fully human.

"Cersei had her murdered. Starved to death while forced to stare at her last daughter's rotting corpse. And then there was the High Sparrow, and the Tyrells, and almost all her enemies, in a single blow..."

The Wolf looked back and forth at either brother. Finally he spoke.

"Your sister is a very interesting woman and I hope to meet her someday. But if you didn't murder her son, who did?"

This at least was more amenable conversation to Tyrion.

"I've since learned that bastard Littlefinger was behind it, but I don't know what became of him."

Jaime stole a glance at Tyrion. His brother had not yet been told of Olenna Tyrell's gloating confession, and he was unsure of how to tell him. He was spared by the Wolf speaking again.

"Littlefinger, Littlefinger... Skinny, weaselly little bastard? Switches to the strongest side in a heartbeat? Beard a goat would be ashamed to wear?"

The Lannisters stared.

"You know him?"

"I _killed_ him. He was third of the five I am to sacrifice in this world."

Tyrion and Jaime stared at each other. Jaime, remembering the gory details of the Mountain's execution at too well, spoke first.

"You killed him... like you killed the Mountain?"

"Him? If only."

The Wolf shook his head, but his tone was of disappointment rather than anger.

"If that man ever held a sword and fought someone with it, I'm a goblin. No, I tied him to a tree and threw swords at him before I finished him off."

"And how did you finish him off?"

"Stabbed him in the back, then slit his throat. I almost considered letting that Song girl do it, but I _am_ the High Executioner. The will of the Gods is to be obeyed, in all circumstances."

Another silence, broken by the far-off sound of voices raised in anger. Tyrion raised another question.

"And why _did_ you kill him? Given your talent for disemboweling them, I would have thought you would go for other great knights."

The Wolf sighed.

"If only that were the case with each of my hunts. No, two out of three I took no pride or joy in killing, for they took no effort, and had the Gods not demanded their lives I would have gladly left such rabble to my men, or the beasts of the wild, or even their enemies of this world. The Night King should prove the worthiest."

Again an awkward silence reigned. Religious madmen and fanatics the Lannister brothers had dealt with on their own, but this one was in another class entirely.

"And what will you do after you kill these five people?"

"I will return, to conquer this world... although from what I have seen of it, there is little promise of conquest or battle to be had. The best hope was those three dragons, and now you're one short."

The Wolf sighed, as would a man whose plans are thrown awry by the incompetence of his allies and the unreliability of his underlings. The Lannisters knew that expression all too well, they had often seen it on their father's face.

"Perhaps I will wait longer to launch the invasion, what glory would there be in conquering a world not ready to battle? Would you believe that Baelish whoreson would have made it even easier, by exchanging the secrets and weakpoints of this world in exchange for his life and the Sansa girl?"

Jaime and Tyrion shared a look. Tyrion spoke first.

"He really would have burned the world just to rule the ashes."

Jaime nodded. He would have like to kill Baelish himself- hardly anyone who'd met Baelish could deny feeling the same urge, but it sounded as though he'd met an appropriately ignoble end at the barbarian's hands.

"And who are the other two of the five, Ser W-"

"Jarl!"

One of the Wolf's men ran up to them, rapidly speaking something to his chieftain. Without a word of goodbye, the giant turned and followed his henchman. To turn one's back so suddenly was a grave insult among the highborn of the Seven Kingdoms, and Tyrion had to wrap both arms around his brother's to stop him drawing his blade and running after the brute.

* * *

The Wolf's men were gathered around the crate they had dragged through the snow, defending it from an immense humanoid more than twice the size of an ordinary man, who made swipes at the mammoth legs on the crate while behind him a crowd of newly-arrived Free Folk watched anxiously.

The Wolf immediately went up to the giant, who had succeeded in grabbing one massive leg, and merely turned its shaggy head towards him.

"Lokh kif rukh?"

It had scarcely turned back when the Wolf answered, in far more syllables and a commanding tone, pointing at the crate and then at the marauders behind him. The surprised giant grumbled something again, as did the Wolf. Though none of the Free Folk present spoke the Old Tongue fluently, it seemed evident from the pair's increasingly loud voices that negotiations were starting to break down, although the Wolf's sardonic grin did not indicate that this was a bad thing in his view.

At that moment, the Wildlings' leader emerged from an outhouse, wiping his hands on his furs, and quickly closed on the incident.

"The hell you doing, big man? You know what Wun Wun does to people who piss him off?"

The Wolf turned his head towards the newcomer.

"Your friend here wants to take our provisions. I am telling him exactly which of his orifices that leg will be going into, sideways, if he doesn't put it back right now. _That_ is what I'm doing."

Tormund Giantsbane started.

"What? Why the hell would he want that, he doesn't eat meat!"

The Wolf started and choked just as he launched into another diatribe, turning in complete disbelief to his counterpart.

"He _what _?!"

"He doesn't eat meat. Never has, that I know of."

The Wolf looked up again and made a new demand, Wun Wun responding by pointing at the mammoth's leg, and then at the Free Folk huddling behind him. His face grew sour.

One of the Free Folk looked at his chieftain.

'What'd he say?"

The Wolf answered before Tormund could.

" 'For them, because I don't eat meat'. A _plant-eating _giant. Certainly explains why he's so damn small."

Tormund looked at the Wolf, whose head barely rose above Wun Wun's waist.

"_Small_? You get bigger giants where you're from, stranger?"

Instead of answering, the Wolf turned around. His heavy leather cloak swirled about him.

"See this cloak?"

"Yes?"

"Made from a _real_ giant's scalp. Midget like that one, I could just about make myself gloves, leggings and a hat. Can he fight at least?"

"Better than any of the others. He broke the gates of the Dreadfort by himself, and if that coward Bolton had been there instead of running away Wun Wun would've have torn him apart."

At this the Wolf seemed to be thinking of something.

"Bolton... That would have been a pitched battle on a hill?"

"Aye, Battle of the Bastards, they called it. Not much of a battle, really, especially after Bolton ran for it."

The Wolf snorted with laughter, but Tormund seemed to take it as an agreement.

"Jarl!"

"What _now!?_"

The Wolf's crewman pointed to the beginnings of a two-man brawl surrounded by an encouraging crowd. One of the marauders was pitted against one of the Free Folk, the former trying to choke the latter, but distracted by the flurry of punches the other rained on his head and shoulders, his stranglehold failing as his opponent caught him a blow square in the eye. A fur-clad woman watched on, her hands to her face.

The Wolf and Tormund immediately ran towards them, the Wolf outpacing the chieftain and plowing through the crowd, grabbing both fighters by their necks and smacking their heads together, leaving both dazed on the ground.

Every onlooker immediately tried to give their version of what had happened even as Tormund arrived. He spoke first, pointing to the woman.

"Ygern here says your man started it. She doesn't know what he said, but his intentions were clear. Her husband told him to piss off, your man didn't like that."

"Did he now."

The Wolf grabbed his subordinate by his braided hair and lifted him clear off the ground, holding him against the wall with one arm. As he berated the man in their own language, he balled his free hand into a fist, punching the marauder in the gut four times before looking at the offended couple.

"That's him punished according to our laws. Anything to add?"

Coughing up blood, the marauder turned a dazed eye on the husband, who approached and punched him in the jaw. As the unconscious man dropped to the ground and the wildling rubbed his knuckles, the Wolf turned to the crowd.

"Erik Bloodspear here has received punishment in accordance to our laws and yours! The matter is closed."

General feeling among the crowd was that it was still open for discussion, but the look on the Wolf's face dissuaded them. As he turned and headed back for the main gate, leaving his man face-down in the snow, Tormund followed him and spoke up.

"Your men try to force themselves on women, you punch them four times?"

"No, just once. That was one for every offense."

"What were those?"

The Wolf halted, counting off on his fingers.

"Picking a fight among allies, picking a fight among allies on the eve of a battle, picking a fight among allies on the eve of a battle over a woman, picking a fight on the eve of a battle over a woman and _losing_."

Tormund nodded.

"Been here long, stranger?"

"Just got here, volunteered my men to fight the dead."

"What tribe're you from?"

"The Sarl. Or I was, now I go where the Gods will me to go."

"Never heard of 'em."

"I'd be surprised, and concerned, if you _had_ heard of them."

There was silence, then the two men extended their hands to each other.

"Wulfrik the Wanderer."

"Tormund Giantsbane."

They clasped forearms, then the Wolf looked his new acquaintance up and down.

"Killed a few, have you?"

"You know, that's a funny story-"

Tormund stopped talking, for at that moment Jon had come out of the keep, scratching his direwolf behind the ears. With a roar of delight the chieftain bulled forward and grabbed the Warden in an inescapable hug.

The Warden's direwolf followed, but stopped on seeing the outlander. Its back arched, fur standing on end, and it growled.

The Wolf turned and grinned, showing teeth as sharp as his namesake's, and responded in kind. Ghost crouched, ready to attack, the Wolf spreading both his arms, not breaking eye contact and making the same growls. Then he looked surprised, and looked at Jon then back to Ghost. After a few more lupine growls and yelps, he fell silent.

As the Wolf and Ghost stared at each other, a heavy crunching sound repeated itself behind him, then a harsh voice rang out.

"You the one who thinks he killed the Mountain?"

The Wolf looked the newcomer up and down. More than a head taller than most men, the right side of his head was a hideous mass of scar tissue, and there was no fear in his gaze, only impatience.

"And you are?"

"Sandor Clegane. You the one who says he killed the cunt?"

"No, I'm the one who _did_ kill him."

The Wolf rummaged around his extensive collection of skulls, some only vaguely human, one with a pair of ram's horns growing out of its eyesockets, before pulling out an enormous specimen with a cord running through its pierced temples.

"Or is he running around without a skull these days?"

Sandor's silence spoke volumes. The Wolf look genuinely surprised.

"He is? Powerful necromancers you have in the South."

"The queen's pet maester Qyburn did it. Don't ask me how."

Sandor look at the grisly relic for some time. Finally he looked up.

"So. You killed the fucker."

"I did."

"How long did it take for him to die?"

Now the Wolf looked Sandor over, as if unable to fathom the reasons for so morbid a fascination.

"Why? He mean something to you?"

"He was- he's my brother. And however slow you killed him, it wasn't long enough."

The Wolf looked entirely unsurprised, even understanding. Evidently such fratricidal hatreds were common enough in his homeland, wherever that was.

"Tripped him, punched his teeth out, and drove my thumbs through his eyes from behind. Slow enough for you?"

"It's a start."

Sandor turned away and headed for the armory. The Wolf watched him go before shrugging.

Tormund's reunion with Jon had ended, and he meandered back to his new friend. The Wolf jutted his jaw at Ghost, who was following his master to the stables.

"You got a wolf-tamer?"

"Ah, no, that's Jon's wolf, reared it from a pup. He's a warg, lets us know where enemies are without them knowing it by going in and out of it when he likes."

"Going in and out of his wolf?"

"That's right."

The Wolf nodded, his eyebrows arched and his voice shaking as he attempted to keep a straight face.

"Very different customs you have in these parts. Personally, I'd rather spend the day going in and out of a woman or four, but to each his own ways, I suppose."

Across the courtyard, Jon started and looked back. He had heard the the Wolf's words as if facing him despite the distance between them. But now was not the time to respond to barbaric innuendos. Clenching his fists, he walked away to oversee the castle's supplies.

A tall woman in plate armor left the keep and headed for the main gate. Tormund's slack-jawed gaze followed her, the Wolf quickly noticing the object of his attention.

"Your woman?"

Tormund sighed heavily.

"I wish."

Both men watched Brienne of Tarth go, both with hunger in their eyes, but each for a very different reason. The Wolf noted the ease with which she carried her armor and the alertness with which she picked up his and Tormund's stares. Rolling her eyes at having gathered yet another unwanted admirer, she quickened the pace, to Tormund's undisguised delight.

"What a woman, eh?"

"Can't fault your taste."

"Why? She look like yours?"

"Reminds of one I saw once... Once."

"Oh?"

The Wolf's face took on a dreamy expression disconcerting to see on so violent a man.

"The battle against the Skraelings, the year of the Purple Rot. We'd been fighting since noon, I had killed eight men already, and the blood and guts ran so freely the ground was a marsh. Then I saw her."

"Amid the screams of the dying and the clash of our weapons, she appeared, the setting sun at her back, a shower of gore pattering on her wings. She was unassailable, her armor was without scratch or blemish, and where she struck, men fell without fail."

"She was... magnificent."

The Wolf fell silent, staring hard at something in the distance only he could see, some image of rapturous beauty that had enthralled him so many years ago. Finally he shook his head as if awakening from a dream.

"But such creatures are not for the likes of mortal men, or even me. She returned to her realm with the falling night, and I have treasured that memory since."

His introspective mood faded, the Wolf pointed at the younger Free Folk.

"So where are you keeping your kin? Or are they fighting too?"

"No, they're going to keep them in the crypts. Safest place in the castle, they say."

"The? Crypts?"

Looking deeply troubled, the Wolf left Tormund where he stood. Walking swiftly to the main gate, Tormund saw him talk to one of the obese warriors, pointing at the keep.

* * *

The commanders had assembled to determine their strategy. To everyone's surprise, Bran said he would serve as bait for the Night King, waiting for him in the godswood. Theon Greyjoy then volunteered himself and his Ironborn volunteers to act as his bodyguard in atonement for his past actions. Silence greeted this statement, then Tormund spoke up.

"We're all going to die."

"But at least-"

The door slammed open. The assembled looked up, some in shock, others in irritation. If the Wolf even noticed his intrusion was unwanted he certainly did not care.

"My men are all in place, Stark! Only thing left to do is wait for the Night King."

Danaerys spoke first, eager to restore her authority which was undermined with such careless ease by the barbarian.

"We know where he'll be."

"Oh? More of that slipping in and out of animals business?"

Jon squeezed the table hard but was able to control himself. If this man excited such murderous intent in his erstwhile allies, he could hopefully be counted on to be worse to his enemies.

"The Three-Eyed Raven is his true target. While we battle the dead, Theon Greyjoy and his Ironborn will guard him."

"Any of them good with a bow?"

Again he managed to destabilize her with a completely unexpected question.

"What?"

"Any of them good with a bow? I have need of a good archer on the frontline, one not of my crew. In return, I'll take his place guarding your flightless bird once the time comes, if he's the Night King's reason to be here."

Stares turned to the Wolf, who seemed oblivious as ever to the hostility he was generating and then to Theon.

"Me."

The Wolf looked Theon up and down, who mustered all his willpower to avoid flinching.

"Good! Got a job for you, boy."

The Wolf grabbed at Theon to gauge the strength and pull of his shoulders when Arya interjected, as much to save Theon as to put to rest to a question that had been niggling at her.

"Ser Wolf."

"What?"

"What of that flying ship of yours, will you not use it? Can't we simply put Bran onboard and lead the Night King away from his army, to somewhere you can duel him to your heart's content?"

The defenders took on a puzzled expression, wondering what this flying ship was and how Arya was so familiar with it. The Wolf shook his head, as if having already considered the idea.

"I cannot risk it. The _Seafang_ has no peer among longships, but even she won't stand up to a dragon if it lacks the protections of a sorcerer coven aboard. I lose it, I am condemned to rot away in this backwater of a world with no way back."

Sansa mentally compared the advantages of a flying ship to having to deal with the Wolf on a daily basis, and quickly agreed. She nodded.

"Very well. However, your flaming sword may not be enough. We do not even know that dragonfire will kill the Night King."

"Hah! _Dragon_fire. Good one."

The Wolf grabbed his sword. A low growl bounced around the room.

"This is warpfire, girl, it'll melt stone as easily as pissing on snow."

Apparently satisfied with his assessment of Theon, the Wolf left the meeting as abruptly as he had entered, the Ironborn in tow.

The departure left a stunned silence. Jon stood up to dispel the impression the outlander had left on them.

"We should get some rest."

The meeting broke up, everyone preoccupied with their own thoughts as to the coming night.

* * *

As the Wolf hauled Theon to the courtyard, he headed straight for the crate, which had been moved outside the walls near the corner tower, on the far side of the trench. An aged man carrying a staff bearing a dead raven was sitting atop the crate, occasionally dropping small chunks of meat into a hatch.

"Sven!"

As the man stood up from the crate and stepped forward, the Wolf nudged Theon.

"You. See this man? His name is Sven Swordeater. Stay behind him."

"He looks like he's trying to run away, kill him. He looks like he's trying to talk to the dead, kill him. He looks like he's going to turn on you, shoot him in the throat. Then kill him, and cut off his tongue, hands and feet."

"Just in case."

Theon started, looking from the Wolf to the sorcerer, who either had not understood or cared about the Wolf's insulting lack of faith in his loyalty.

"You don't trust him?"

"He's a sorcerer, he'll betray me eventually... but at least I'll have deserved it. Few things worse than being betrayed for no reason but some damn fool's nearsighted ambition."

Theon's cheeks flushed as he remembered other betrayals that had been just as badly motivated.

"But I don't-"

"You don't what? He has a stick, you have a bow, stay out of reach of the stick. Grow a pair, will you?"

Without waiting for a response as was clearly his custom, the Wolf asked his seer a question in their own language. Theon felt nauseous as the old sorcerer grinned and his cheek scars wrinkled and shifted, bringing both hands to his chest and making a groping motion before pointing at the keep. The Wolf barked out in laughter before turning back, Theon looking awkwardly at his charge.

"You want know how got scars?"

Theon started. Had the seer read his mind? No, it was obvious any man would ask about it.

"Want know how got name Swordeater?"

"Um. Yes?"

"Was in battle with Aesling fighter, long ago. Was less than your age, just warrior, not long after manhood. Aesling tripped me, I fell on ground. Aesling kneeled, held head down and stabbed sword through both cheeks."

Theon winced, but Sven paid it no mind.

"Then Aesling laughed, leaned down to laugh in my face. That when Changer called me."

A small smile played around the seer's ruined mouth as he recalled the happy memory.

"Put hand in Aesling's mouth as laughed... and burned head from inside. Was given to tribe shaman after that. But always kept piece of skull that survived fire with me."

Sven pointed to a curved piece of bone hanging among the trinkets of his staff.

"When killed shaman to take place, used same trick. Changer blessed me, many time I thank him."

Theon was beginning to understand why the Wolf had tasked him with killing his sorcerer.

* * *

As Jon and Arya left the meeting, they headed down the corridor, but found the intersection was blocked by several people looking at an unusual sight.

Melisandre the Red was striding down the corridor, looking back to shoot a contemptuous glance at one of the Wolf's barbarians following her, holding out a small purse. The bald marauder spoke a few words in his own tongue, but the tone seemed more placating than aggressive.

But as she turned her head back to the front, Melisandre's haughty expression became a mask of horror. She backed up against the wall, pointing a trembling hand at the Wolf, who was approaching from another corridor.

"No! Get him away! GET HIM AWAY!"

The Wolf blinked in surprise.

"He is wrong! WRONG! He should not be here!"

The crowd looked at each other, then at the Wolf. He did not seem overly concerned, although he was looking at the priestess with some insistence. Finally he spoke a few words to his henchman, who responded in kind, with some pointing at Melisandre and agitating of the purse, which tinkled with the sound of coin.

As the barbarian continued speaking, the Wolf's expression went from irritation to concern to outright disturbed. He looked back and forth from his henchman to the priestess several times, mouth trembling, until finally he could contain himself no longer and burst out laughing, holding himself against the wall to stop from falling over.

Once the storm of hilarity passed, he wiped the tears from his eyes and addressed his audience, fits of laughter still interrupting him.

"He- he thinks she's a whore, and is offering her gold-_ actual gold_, in exchange for bedding her!"

Some uneasy laughter rippled, but none of the onlookers seemed to find the misunderstanding as funny as the Wolf did. As he looked from one face to another, he too slowly grew grave. After further exchange with his henchman, he looked more thoughtfully at Melisandre, who cringed.

Raising both hands to his throat, the Wolf pulled slowly on both ends of the massive studded torc of dully-shining brass surrounding his neck. As soon as it stopped touching his skin, his expression changed to shock, and he nodded before twisting the collar back in place.

"Ahhhhh. That would explain a lot."

Pointing at his underling's purse, he said something in their guttural language.

"Einarr! það er of lítið!"

No one else understood, and even the marauder didn't seem to get the joke. Slapping him jovially on the shoulder, the Wolf left the way he came, flashing the Red Woman a grin.

With the onlookers looking puzzled, Melisandre darted to Jon, grabbing him by the collar, her eyes wide.

"That... thing is WRONG! It does not belong here! Kill him! Now!"

"We can't."

Jon's voice spoke volumes on how deeply he agreed with her.

"He's here to help against the Walkers. We need his men and him this night."

The Wolf gone, the defenders headed to their posts, leaving Melisandre to stalk off without a glance at the enamored barbarian, leaving him looking dejected before he returned to the courtyard. Arya gave him a look as she went to look for Gendry. With a start, she recognized him as the rower she'd threatened to kill on the _Seafang_, so many months ago. Working for the Wolf seemed to be as great an ordeal as working with him.

* * *

A few hours later, as night fell and all preparations been made as well as they could, the defenders found themselves doing their best to enjoy what time had been left to them. Several of the commanders had retreated to the keep, where to everyone's unspoken relief, the Wolf had thankfully not opted to join them. With jokes and singing, the atmosphere was soon lightened, and the discussion turned to knighting, a term for which Tormund had a highly personal definition. On the eve of the greatest battle of her life, Brienne was made a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.

Arya walked out of the smithy where Gendry was still recovering from his amorous exertions. That had certainly been a novel experience. Two of the Wolf's men were in the courtyard, headed towards the main gate. One nudged his companion to point at her. They laughed and made obscene gestures, stopping only when they saw her pull out a dragonglass arrowhead and heft it experimentally. She watched them go, reflecting that men were clearly the same no matter which world they came from.

As she watched the walls, a horn sounded. The dead had arrived.

The battle for the fate of not just Westeros but all mankind had begun.


	5. Chapter 4,5

In Winterfell's courtyard, Danaerys' dragons lifted off. Still reeling from Jon revealing the truth of his birth, she did not particularly look forward to the battle or to putting down Viserion, but it had to be done. For the sake of all men, and her future kingdom. Jon clung grimly to Rhaegal's back.

As the Dothraki assembled themselves before the main gate, Melisandre rode up to them. After some hesitation, Jorah Mormont relayed her order for the warriors to lift their swords. Grabbing one, she spoke to it in High Valyrian for some time, and tongues of fire sprang to life upon all the blades, a great wave of flame spreading over the ranks of the cavalry.

Melisandre continued back towards the gate, exchanging her final words with Grey Worm, but her smug expression faltered when she saw the Wolf standing at the back of the infantry blocks next to Wun Wun, grinning at her and holding two long poles. He spoke to her in the very same language, and while none in earshot understood they certainly understood the tone of crude mockery. Grabbing the pommel of her saddle to steady herself, she carried on into the castle where the gate was unbarred to let her through.

Jorah gave the order. The Dothraki host moved out, whooping and yelling. From the battlements, the defenders saw the vast blob of flame surged forward, galloping confidently towards the dead. Soldiers went to work on siege engines, lighting boulders and pulling ropes, burning projectiles filling the sky and preceding the cavalry.

But the echoing warcries soon gave way to silence, and worse, screams of terror as the distant pinpoints of light were extinguished. Lone and terrified horses came galloping back, their eyes wide, one bearing Jorah on its back. The charge had failed, and many of the Dothraki were now temporarily among the ranks of the sleeping dead.

The wights approached in a great unbroken mass. The Unsullied showed no fear, shifting into battle formation with long-practiced ease. The Winterfell soldiers, Ironborn and Free Folk did their best to imitate the Essos soldiery, but many were secretly glad to be behind the reassuring bulk of the Wolf's warriors, who had insisted by means of shoving and aggressive glares on being in the frontline, more than thirty spread out before the footsoldiers.

Their armor was of leather and strips of metal, their shields were of wood and only carried axes hastily refitted with dragonglass heads, yet they seemed no more afraid than the Unsullied. In fact they made more noise than the other soldiers, calling out to each other and laughing in response to whatever boast or wager had been made, or banging their weapons against their shields.

As the dead drew closer, the shield-banging became universal among the outlanders. One or two of the warriors started trembling and snarling, eyes fixed on the horizon, bringing their shields to their mouths and biting heavily on the rim. As the dead closed, they could restrain themselves no longer and hurled themselves screaming into the fray, each swipe smashing through wights like an oar through water.

Under the battlement, Theon struggled to keep from trembling as the desiccated horde approached. He had volunteered to battle them, and he was not about to let the name of Greyjoy suffer from his cowardice again, even before barbarians who barely spoke their language.

Sven Swordeater, standing atop the crate, motioned to the two marauders accompanying him, who swung their swords onto the ropes keeping the crate shut. Hurriedly the two men grabbed long poles tipped with a glowing green shard of crystal, staying well away from the door as it fell open.

In the flickering light it was hard to tell what was going on, but there was a definite impression of movement, and suddenly there was no need for the torches anymore.

A hideous, shapeless monstrosity poured out of the cage, multicolored flames flaring into life all over its deformed body. Iridescent skin explored every shade of blue and purple, from the delicate hue of a duck's egg to the liver-color of a corpse swinging from a gibbet. Feathers danced and rippled in hypnotic patterns before being absorbed back into the creature's body or burnt to cinder. Eyes popped up from between fleshy folds, glaring in every direction, then closing again. Scaly yellow legs extruded and retracted, absorbed into the body when they snapped under its weight. Gaping maws and snapping beaks opened like wounds to belch fire in all directions and sealed themselves just as quickly. No part of the creature remained the same for long, it was as changing and mobile as the churning surface of a storm-wracked sea.

With a sharp prod from one of its goaders' greenstone spears, the horrible thing lurched forward into the mass of wights, its scorching breath clearing a path before it as flame issued in sporadic bursts from its sides. Those walkers not burned to cinder instead dissolved into streams of bubbles, gaily-colored butterflies, or puddles of ooze as the ever-changing creature's breath swept over them.

"What the flying fuck is _that?!_"

Sven heard Theon's anguished cry and placidly answered.

"That? Firewyrm."

Theon's goggle-eyed stare was the only reaction.

"Burn dead, change dead..."

The sorcerer shrugged.

"Important thing is, cold dead stay dead after."

Theon looked on, aghast, not knowing to stare at the monster or its handler. The wights which mindlessly approached the firewyrm were soon no more, and the sorcerer and his bodyguards started prodding the beast in the direction of the army's bulk. Theon, loath to stay away from the clearest threat to the advancing dead and the circle of light it created, followed them.

"Is- Is it going to turn on us?"

"Him? No, not if keep out of way. And knows me."

"It _knows_ you?"

"Was man, once. Olav Bjarnsson. Blessed many time, gods give many gift. But Olav, never sharpest sword in trophy rack, not stay sane long. So, Raven give last gift, turn Olav to firewyrm. Better killer now than when man, yes?"

A single eye had formed at the rear of the creature, staring fixedly at the sorcerer, but was subsumed before Sven could poke it with his staff to keep it moving.

* * *

In the sky, the dragons continued to lay waste to the dead hordes, when a massive snowstorm erupted from behind the undead lines. As Jon and Danaerys struggled to stay atop their mounts, they did not see a single mounted White Walker break ranks and gallop towards the battle. The dragons were forced to the ground, the panicky infantry threatening to collapse around the imperturbable phalanxes of the Unsullied, others forming a hasty shieldwall around Wun Wun.

The Walker plowed through the melee, trampling living and dead alike, halting only when a voice cut over the din.

"Well it's about time, ice-for-brains! I tell you to bring your frostbitten arse over here so I can kick it, I expect you there on the same day, not in three months if the winds hold up and the weather's fair! Are you as slow to fight as you are on your horse? I've seen three-legged dogs with arthritis and gout move faster trough molasses!"

Without responding to the Wolf's taunts, the Walker merely pressed his horse onward, straight at the giant. The Wolf, rather than sidestepping, crouched behind his shield, digging the point into the ground. As the charging wight-horse slammed into the braced shield, the Wolf grit his fangs as he punched the horse, the impact jarring the Walker from his mount and sending the Wolf rolling to the ground.

The Wolf recovered faster than his foe and grabbed the Walker, batting aside its weapon with his shield. It screeched at him, but he merely punched it in the mouth, frost forming on the knuckles of his gauntlet, before forcing it face-down in the snow. He grabbed the two poles that were strapped to his back and laid one across the Walker's shoulders, punishing its continued struggling with another punch to the back of the head.

Having lashed both its arms and neck to the first pole with iron chains that glowed orange where they made contact with the Walker's skin and tying a cloth around its eyes and mouth, he set down the second pole along its back, tying its legs, knees and midsection securely together with another set of chains. The Walker struggled and thrashed, but it could not free itself.

The Wolf then set to work, lifting the crucified Walker and slotting the pole to his back like a banner. Sighing with satisfaction, he set his eyes skyward and turned his back to the battle, setting off towards the castle where a great conflagration had lit up the sky for an instant, the trench blazing into a raging inferno to keep the dead at bay.

What remained of the living hurried through the great gate, the Wolf among them, every man too busy with his own survival to pay attention to what he now carried on his back. Had the defenders not been busy readying themselves for the assault, they would have seen a single flickering light far in the distance as the firewyrm and its handlers continued to make their way through the army of the dead.

As the gates shut fast, the dead stopped moving. The Night King's forces, needing no food, no rest or heat, had settled down to starve out the defenders.

* * *

Next to the godswood, Bran shut his eyes, his mind warging into the ravens of Winterfell. On his stolen dragon, the Night King started. The dead started moving again, pouring across the burning trench, in such numbers that they eventually extinguished a portion of it.

The dead hurled themselves against the walls, scrabbling were they could find purchase, or allowing themselves to be used as a ladder by the following waves. Even as the dragon brothers reunited in the sky, ripping and clawing at each other, the wights had reached the top of the wall, pushed back with desperate energy by the defenders.

The great gate of Winterfell trembled under the mighty blows of a one-eyed undead giant, splintering at last to allow the horde of cadavers and half-fleshed skeletons to pour in.

The six Crow Brothers, the Wolf's proclaimed elite, were waiting for them. Winterfell pikemen, blazing torches affixed to their weapons, waited behind them looking queasy, whether from fear of the enemy or being too close to the malodorous warriors. Wun Wun stood further still behind, one arm dangling limply, the other holding a length of timber three men would have struggled to lift.

Each Crow Brother was horrifically fat, some almost spherical, with bulging eyes and swollen limbs, covered in bone-white scars that stood out against their pale and greenish skin. Every warrior bore their warband's totem animal somewhere on his gross and bloated body. The largest and fattest, who wielded a rusty scythe and had a dead crow nailed to his head, belched loudly and started walking unhurriedly towards the invaders, each ponderous step sending ripples through the folds of his double chest and triple chin. He and his brothers marched three abreast, plugging the porticullis as efficiently as a cork in a bottle.

The wights advanced, wielding the weapons they had carried in life or balling their withered hands into fists. They were nearly on the Crow Brothers when the toadlike warrior in the middle grinned and swung his scythe, cutting through three wights at a stroke. The weapons of rusted steel did not disrupt the magic keeping them moving, but they were swung with such force as to smash the dead to more manageable chunks.

A risen wildling brought its axe into the bare chest of a Crow Brother. The obese warrior issued a wheezing chuckle. It was not blood that spilled out of the gash but a stream of centipedes that poured forth over the wound and onto the wight, biting and gnawing at what flesh was left on it.

Another Crow Brother covered in pustules guffawed as half a dozen of the dead cut into his flesh, every slash causing a flood of fat to bubble up and close the wound. He farted and smashed his filth-encrusted mace into the wight before him.

As the impetus of the first wave was checked, the wights behind running into those in front, the Winterfell pikemen at the rear lowered their burning spears, the fire spreading swiftly among the desiccated corpses. They could tell the bloated warriors before them were bellowing encouragement at each other, but could not understand their language, only hearing the repeated word "nargl".

But for all their toughness, the Crow Brothers could not stem the tide forever. Two of them fell to the dead, the contents of their putrid guts forming a corrosive puddle that dissolved the feet of the following attackers.

With a roar, the wight-giant smashed through the dead crowding the passage, the force of its charge punting all six Crow Brothers outside. As it straightened up, it grabbed one of the warriors in its grasp, but could not lift it, and so began squeezing, ignoring the other three levering their polarms into its body or Wun Wun's weapon splintering against its skull.

Its victim showed no trace of fear, only laughing as the wight-giant's grip tightened around him, ribs snapping and fat bulging up and overflowing around the closed fist until he finally exploded, his guts spraying over the courtyard and spattering over the pikemen. More than one fell to his knees and vomited, the unbearable smell now overpowering.

The wight-giant continued its rampage, grabbing another of the Crow Brothers and repeating the trick. But its victim was even more resilient than the last, giving the warband time to ram their weapons into the wight-giant's hip, probing and thrusting until they managed to pop a leg out of its joint. Wun Wun moved in, bracing himself with a foot and pulling on the corpse's leg, dried sinews and muscles snapping. The wight-giant collapsed to the ground, but a final squeeze of its hands burst the captive like an overripe pimple, showering pus and bile over the courtyard.

The crippled wight-giant swept around to catch another Crow Brother, none of which could move fast enough to evade its grasp. As it used both hands to pull the warrior's head off its body, Lyanna Mormont strode up, jumping over the outstretched arms. Before the wight-giant could react or even bring her into focus, she had plunged the dragonglass dagger into its remaining eye.

The wight-giant fell instantly, but now the dead could enter the courtyard unopposed, swarming over the defenders and the Crow Brothers. Wun Wun's improvised club swept the ranks of the dead as did the polearms of the Wolf's warriors, until the giant grabbed the corpse and shoved it into the porticullis.

* * *

In the deserted halls of Winterfell, Beric Dondarrion and Sandor Clegane progressed slowly, Beric's flaming sword held in front of him like a great torch. A clattering in the distance startled both men, and they approached the door with some trepidation. The door suddenly crashed to the ground to reveal a screaming Arya pinned by a wight.

Almost by reflex, Beric hurled his burning sword at the wight, pushing it away from her. He grabbed Arya, but before he could recover the sword, more wights flooded into the room, one stabbing Beric in the ankle. He hobbled out of the room as best he could, joining Sandor as he smashed his axe into a crowd of wights.

As the trio fled, more wights poured in from all sides, snarling and stabbing. Beric was struck again, and another, louder yell was heard. At an intersection, Beric was blindsided by a wight, and nearly fell as it stabbed at him.

The yell was heard again, this time from much closer. Covered in wounds and rolling mad eyes, one of the Wolf's marauders burst through the other door, holding the remains of a shield and a short-handled hammer so battered it seemed to have been used to cut down trees.

With a frenzied scream, the madman hurled himself at the mass of wights, bulling into one before it could stab Beric in the gut, and smashing in the head of another. Arya pulled Beric after her, Sandor following shortly. She wasted no time talking to the berserker, he was entirely beyond reason or rescue now.

As Arya stumbled through the corridors, half-dragging the wheezing Beric behind her, she tried hard to concentrate. Her hearing had clearly been affected by the fall, she was certain she heard the lunatic bellowing something about corn.

Soon the outlander's roars of rage had stopped, but by then they had reached the great hall, where Beric collapsed as soon as the door was shut. Sandor wasted no time in piling up benches against the door to strengthen the barricade against the dead. Arya tried to look over Beric's wounds, but snapped around on feeling another presence.

Melisandre spared the gasping Beric a glance.

"The Lord of Light brought him back for a purpose. He has another part yet to play."

Sandor looked at both with some confusion, but remained silent. Melisandre now had eyes only for Arya.

"I know you."

"And I know you."

Arya stood up. Sandor watched them both, not understanding their conversation, something about shutting eyes. But as the wights started beating at the door and Arya turned to leave, Melisandre grabbed her by the shouder.

"The man you saw earlier. He is here for the skull of the Night King. He must not take it. Do you understand me?"

Arya looked puzzled, but nodded.

"What you say to the god of death goes for his gods as well."

Arya ran out. The wights' efforts against the door were increasing. Sandor hefted his axe, then dragged the weakly protesting Beric out of his his way, leaving him propped up against the wall. Melisandre crouched next to him and whispered in his ear as Sandor took up his post at the door.

* * *

Theon felt his arm weakening, his shoulders and drawing hand screaming in pain. Even with the firewyrm herded into the thickest concentrations of wights, there still seemed to be as many of them standing as at the start of the battle. He was down to his last dragonglass arrowhead, and hesitated to use it on the dead or save it to prevent the sorcerer's betrayal as he'd been warned. He cast a look at the walls now far behind and swarming with corpses, only to see Sven looking intently at him.

In one hand Sven held a tiny glowing green vial which he crushed, letting the liquid within flow into his palm and down his wrist_._ A sharp, unknown smell assaulted Theon's nostrils. Bringing his arm to his lips, the sorcerer greedily licked up the green ooze... and his eyes suddenly burned with the same multicolored flames as those produced by the firewyrm.

Theon watched in amazement, his bowstring slack. Then Sven pointed at him with a rod of shining metal, speaking in an unknown tongue. Sudden spasms gripped the Ironborn, and he doubled over coughing, trying to raise his bow and avenge himself of the sorcerer's treachery. But even as he fell over, he felt as though he were flying.

A thousand voices sang wondrous things in his ears, and he saw a vision of himself standing at the prow of the _Silence_, leading a fleet so numerous as to hide the ocean, taller, stronger, and radiating confidence, and he felt more alive than ever before.

The vision changed, and now he saw himself seated upon the Iron Throne itself, dressed in richer clothing than he had ever owned. He was surrounded by adoring courtiers and devoted Ironborn, Danaerys and Sansa at his left hand, Robb Stark and Yara at his right, and before them the cringing and broken forms of Euron Greyjoy, Cersei Lannister and Ramsay Snow begging for his mercy and screaming their repentance for their actions against him. Behind them stood Ned Stark and Balon Greyjoy, endlessly repeating how proud they were of him, the finest of the Greyjoys and a Stark in all but name, the greatest king Westeros had ever known, and the son they had always wanted him to be. He was the king no subject would overthrow, the general whose orders were never disobeyed, the captain whose soldiers followed out of admiration, the brother no man would abandon, the husband no wife would betray.

He turned his head and the vision changed again, now seeing a kraken and a wolf in a thrashing sea, dragging down a struggling lion and a stag. The wolf leaped onto the kraken's body and it became a single creature, fur sprouting over its body, its tentacles arranging themselves into an eight-pointed star.

He could see it now in its marvelous simplicity. _He_ would be the one to conquer the Seven Kingdoms and sit upon the Throne where all others had failed. Already he felt an urge in his mind to mark himself as the ruler history demanded, by wading through lakes of blood such as even the Targaryens had never seen. All would bend the knee to him, and his leadership would bring about a golden age.

Then the vision faded, and Theon stood up in the snows of Winterfell.

But he felt a new man entirely, free of fear and fatigue, as if the essence of the magnificent hero he had seen had remained within him, showing him a possible future that could yet be his, if only he had the will to see it carried out. He felt that his limbs were of greater length and breadth, his mind sharper, he could tell he was taller. His trousers felt strangely tight, and to his mounting shock he realized he was whole again. His vision seemed impaired, until he realized his head was covered in a helmet just as his limbs and torso were covered by metal armor. His newfound strength found no difficulty in moving the extra weight. A circular shield with a snarling face lay at his feet, and he dropped his bow to pick it up.

He looked to Sven, who smirked and pointed at the teeming hordes of the dead. Where moments before he had regarded them with dread, now he saw only opportunity. Each wight he felled would be another stepping stone to the destiny he had been promised.

He stepped forward with confidence, picking up a dead warrior's dragonglass blade, and cleaved a reanimated Wildling's skull in two, impaling another before it had had time to swing its weapon at him, rejoicing in his newfound strength. A wight still bearing the arms of Winterfell stabbed a spear at him, which he sidestepped with contemptuous ease before pushing the walking corpse straight into the firewyrm's path, where it became a small pink flower. In him his emotions were all turned towards his new goal, rage and lust and hope and love combined to make him feel invincible.

He had been called to glory, and would not be found wanting.

* * *

Jon fell heavily to the ground. They had done it, the Night King had been knocked off his dragon and made vulnerable, but at great cost. As he ran across the battlefield back to the castle, he saw a lone figure walking nonchalantly towards the vast breach in the walls, a sword pointing at an angle from the scabbard on its back. The Night King had no guards around him. Jon ran faster, this could be the only chance.

Even as the Night King paused and held his arms out horizontally, even as the dead opened blue eyes and stood up, Jon ran faster, but he still was not fast enough. The Night King only gave him a contemptuous glance before turning back to the castle and the godswood where Bran was waiting, one archer short thanks to the Wolf's meddling.

As if to remind Jon of this failure, the next wight to rise was one of the Wolf's warriors, a tall and burly man with more tattoos than exposed skin. By the number of fresh scars, his life had not been sold cheaply, but all that meant was the Night King had even bigger corpses at his disposal. Without a moment's hesitation, Jon thrust his sword through the outlander wight. Nothing would keep him from his duty to his people and his family.

* * *

In the crypts of Winterfell, the womenfolk, children, wounded and other courtiers deemed too important to risk on the walls huddled together, shuddering in fear as the reports of the battle above filtered through to them. The high-pitched crying of a small child instantly shushed by its mother sometimes rose above the weeping.

Only one stood fearless among them, indifferent to the despair around him. The Crow Brother dispatched by the Wolf slouched by a tomb, more interested in the squeaking of a rat he alternately petted and squeezed in his wart-covered hand. He was given a wide berth by the others, both because of the smell he exuded even in the subterranean chill and the way flames burned blue when near him.

From within one tomb, something scraped against the stone wall, then a withered hand punched through. The corpse pulled itself out, then another, then a dozen more.

Screams and wailing echoed in the crypt. Several of the less-wounded looked for anything that might serve as a weapon, while others looked for an escape or pulled back further behind the tombs.

Then there was a heavy sigh, as a man might expel when confronted with an uninteresting but necessary duty. The Crow Brother put his rat back in a pouch of moldy leather, then picked up his rust-eaten halberd. He walked with thudding steps towards the dead, the weapon dragging behind him in a shower of sparks.

As the first wight stood up, the Crow Brother's weapon swung upwards and over his head, crashing down on the wight's skull, shattering it. The headless corpse continued forward, but the warrior's bulk made him unstoppable even at slow speeds and it simply bounced off his prominent gut, the impact forcing a loud burp from his mouth.

Though the wights piled up around him, the Crow Brother showed no emotion save boredom, and as those buried with their weapons struck at him, seemed to feel no pain either. Pulling his halberd from the chest of a long-dead Stark, he backed himself against a wall and tirelessly swung his weapon again and again, smashing the dead into still-moving but more manageable pieces.

Behind a tomb, Sansa and Tyrion pulled out their dragonglass daggers and exchanged a long, meaningful look. They said no words, but came to a silent agreement. Tyrion crawled on hands and knees around the tomb, suppressing a gasp when he saw the Crow Brother beset by a half-circle of wights but still resisting despite more than a dozen horrific wounds, his own intestines dangling to the floor through a gap in his stomach. What manner of monsters did the Wolf have access to?

Standing up, Tyrion dashed to the first group of women and children he saw, motioning them to flee the other way. He hesitated for a moment, then ran up to the battle and jammed his dagger into the top half of a bisected wight, ending its attempts to stab the Crow Brother's ankles. Sansa had followed him, backstabbing a wight who had jammed a spear into the warrior's exposed guts.

But the respite was all too brief, and though Tyrion and Sansa did what they could dispatch the severed limbs and torsos around the Crow Brother, they too fell back. Sansa gave the inhuman warrior a last glance, but he did not seem aware of their departure, his rat squeaking shrilly as it perched on his bald skull.

* * *

In the godswood, Bran sat waiting, staring at nothing. His wheeled chair was out in the open, with no effort made to hide it or to allow it to be hauled to safety. He heard a roar from far off, muffled by distance, and with the crack of falling masonry, the sound was suddenly louder, accompanied as it was by panicked yelling. The Ironborn left to guard him had run to the source of the noise, eager to do their duty.

Yet their screams too faded away. Soon enough, only footsteps were heard crunching in the snow. A line of blue appeared in the mist, resolving itself into a succession of icy points. The White Walkers approached until they were just visible in the mist, and stopped.

A lone figure approached the godswood. Neither it nor Bran made a sound, and the young Stark turned his head to look up into the face of the enemy of all men.

The Night King said nothing, his face immobile, his eyes fixed on Bran. Their stares seemed to last an eternity. Finally his hand moved upwards.

"Well, well. Most wives are content with giving their husbands a single pair of horns, yours must take lovers the way an oven takes loaves, and with the same frequency!"

The Night King's expression of frozen contempt did not change, but its gaze did shift from Bran to the Wolf, who strolled out from behind the godswood as casually as if he were discussing the weather. He was a picture of barbaric splendor, the chained skulls clinking noisily against each other and his armor, his left side covered by an immense metal shield engraved with runes, his steel-shod boots crunching in the snow. On the pole strapped to his back, the crucified Walker was struggling to free itself, cloth still wrapped around its eyes and mouth.

"Then again, I can understand her. She must desperately be searching for a cock that's stiff for reasons unrelated to the cold."

The Night King's eyelid twitched, while the Wolf's mocking tone echoed around the courtyard. The Walkers behind the Night King were immobile, staring as one at the Wolf circled around, gesturing at the Walker strapped to his back.

"I hope you don't mind that I invited one of your little catamites? I had thought to practice on him, but then I thought I wouldn't want to make the fight even easier for myself. The master promises to be as disappointing as the servants."

The Wolf stopped moving, but continued speaking in the silence.

"So I hear your kind cannot be harmed by mundane iron, and your blades don't even need to be sharp to shatter whatever they strike."

"The arms and armor of a coward, in fact, who so fears pain that he breaks his enemies' weapons before they can hurt him."

Slapping the swordbelt at his waist, the Wolf went on.

"Now, arsemouth, I have here a sword forged by the bull-worshiping midgets of the Black Fortress, infused with warpstone, inlaid with spells of ruin, and a daemon _very_ unwillingly bound within. Cost me a full season's plunder in both thralls _and_ gold. Shall we see if it can pierce that leathery hide of yours? It will do the world a service in any case, it can't be good for young men's confidence to see you and be reminded their balls will someday look like your face!"

Still saying nothing, the Night King pulled a hand up over its shoulder to draw its blade of ice. Grinning, the Wolf pulled out his sword. Another scream filled the air, shaking the very branches of the godswood, and the flickering flames cast strange shadows and lights over the giant's face. The Wolf seemed to be waiting for a reply, but faced with the Night King's silence he simply shrugged and went on.

"Nothing? I'd threaten to cut out your tongue, but I can see you are so slow of wit that it would be useless to do so. Assuming, of course, that you even had a tongue to remove, and that it didn't snap off inside one of your slave's arseholes not long before your cock suffered the same fate."

The two inhuman monsters stared at each other. The Wolf's gaze flickered to Bran for a second.

"Get the cripple out of the way, will you, cold-blood? I can tell you're already not much of a fighter, but maybe you can be trusted to deal with a boy who barely looks old enough to shave, two limbs short and without even a weapon."

The Night King struck without warning, a lunge that carried him away from Bran's chair, sword swinging down. But the Wolf was expecting the blow, and the Night King's sword struck the unholy blade in a clash of ice on fire.

"Missed! Don't tell me you can't see in the dark? Too ugly to rule by day, too blind to fight at night, your story truly is a tragedy like no other!"

The Wolf's shield swung up, the serrated edge knocking against the Night King's horned skull. But the Night King turned his head and pushed away, the Wolf following with a thrust that clipped one of its head spikes. It fell to the snowy ground, steaming.

"One down, two dozen to go! Hold still, you bald bastard of a hedgepig and a yhetee, I'd like for this little trimming session to be over before spring!"

With another thrust, the Wolf's sword nearly struck the Night King in the shoulder, but it turned out of the way. The Night King grabbed the ardent blade in one hand, the flames greedily surrounding it, but the frozen skin remained unblistered and uncharred. The burning sword howled in frustration as the Night King raised his own blade and smashed it into the Wolf's shield. But the shield held fast. Instead of shattering, the shifting metal of the rune-carved shield seemed to drink the magic of the icy sword.

The Wolf's eyes went to the Night King's hand before locking gazes with his foe.

"Any other tricks you'd like to get out of the way? Now fight like you mean it, I've seen sons slap their mothers with more ferocity!"

"Unless you'd rather have it said that the Night King is a little _bitch_ who pisses his breeches at the idea of fighting?"

Pulling back, the Night King aimed a slash at the Wolf's unarmored head, but he parried it with his own blade before he rammed his shield into his foe's side, driving him back towards the godswood.

The Night King stepped back, but the Wolf lashed out, an upwards stroke that slashed the Night King from chin to cheek with a triumphant shout. But the blue-white flesh did not char around the wound, and the Wolf snarled bitterly as he saw his boast of warpfire surpassing dragon's breath had been proven false.

Again and again he struck but none of his ox-killing blows could cleave through the Night King's limbs, again and again the Night King thrust and slashed but his sword was ever met by the Wolf's shield. The Walker strapped to the Wolf's back groaned and shook in impotent fury, but could not aid its master.

Taking a step back, the Night King thrust out before the Wolf could recover from a mighty blow, smashing a skull into smithereens. The Wolf growled and leaped forward, but again the Night King turned to the side, the Wolf's momentum carrying him past his foe, and only by stumbling into a roll did he prevent the Night King's sword from separating his head from his shoulders. The blade of ice cleaved through metal and necrotic flesh, the Walker letting out a muffled howl as its leg was cut off mid-thigh. As the Wolf stood back up, his face and beard spattered with snow from the fall, his boot stamped down on the severed leg with a loud crack.

"I don't know what the Father of Plagues will want with you. A scarecrow for his fields maybe? You do have the required skills: moving slower than a half-dead snail and being ugly enough to spoil milk by looking at it!"

Again their swords clashed. The two fighters strained at each other in another fruitless push under the godswood, the Wolf bellowing insults that the Night King did not or could not answer, and it was at that moment that Arya dropped from the godswood's branches with a piercing scream.

The Night King suddenly pivoted, causing the Wolf to stumble past him with an oath, and grabbed the would-be assassin by the arm and throat in midair, just before she could stab him with a dragonglass dagger. She let go of the weapon, and before the Night King could react, had snapped it up in her other hand, and would have thrust it into the Night King's chest if the Wolf had not bulled into the Night King from behind, dropping Arya to the ground.

"What's the matter, you creaking old mummy, forgot what you were doing?! Was losing your strength in your dotage not enough, has what's left of your mind deserted you as well!?"

The Night King stumbled two steps from the unexpected attack and turned again to keep the Wolf in his sight. Arya rolled on the ground between the fighters' feet, sitting up just as the Night King's sword slashed downwards and missed her by a hairsbreadth. And then she saw it, thrust into the Wolf's belt amid all the swords he carried: the hilt of the Valyrian steel dagger she'd given him to execute Littlefinger.

As the Wolf and the Night King lunged for each other, Arya sprang up. In a single movement, she rolled up, one hand catching on the Wolf's swordbelt and swinging her to the side, the other hand grasping the handle of her dagger and sliding it out of its sheath. She released the belt, momentum sending her rolling, but she turned the roll into a crouch, creeping closer to the fighters, who had bounced off each other again.

The Wolf stood tall, inhaling deeply as he held his sword aloft, his eyes fixed on the Night King.

"FOR **CHAAAAOOOOOOSSSSSSS!**"

As the Wolf jumped forward again, sword held high, Arya broke into a run. She leaped and rammed the Valyrian blade into the Night King's chest, just as the Wolf's sword came crashing down on the horned head.

In the blink of an eye, the Night King disintegrated. Fragments of ice rained to the ground, and nothing was left of the monster who had filled the nightmares of the Northeners. Arya gaped in silence, the Wolf swearing as the shattering Walker above him showered him in ice shards.

"Nurgle's fistules, what the hell was that?!"

The Wolf's head snapped left and right, as if the Night King had played some trick on him. The ground ahead was covered as after a hailstorm as the White Walkers exploded before their eyes. A roar from the courtyard snapped him out of his state, and he rushed off after the sound.

Arya watched him go. He did not seem to have noticed her presence. As she went to her brother still staring into nothingness, she grabbed the handles of his wheelchair, but a thought occurred to her.

"Bran?"

"Did you know that would happen?"

Bran turned his head towards her, but did not answer.

* * *

Jon ducked as Viserion bellowed in fury. He scrambled back behind a stone wall. Though there was nothing he could do, though it was folly to do anything but run away, he was all that stood against this twisted beast and his foster siblings. His Stark blood did not lie. He stood up, sword drawn and yelled defiance at the undead monster. Viserion lunged forward, maw gaping-

-and fell.

Jon stared in utter shock as the dragon simply collapsed as if struck by an invisible hammer the size of a building.

"What in the six hells of Slaanesh is THIS?! Where's the dragon!?"

Jon turned around. The Wolf headed for Jon as soon as he saw him, grabbing him by the back of his cloak and lifting him to his eye level.

"You! What happened? Where's the dragon!?"

"Where's the dragon!?"

Before Jon could even answer, the Wolf started shaking him as a lion would worry at a deer's throat, punctuating each jerk of his arm with a roar of fury. The giant's rage-congestioned face would have terrified lesser men far more than Viserion's, his teeth just as sharp and his breath even worse.

"WHERE-"

"IS-"

"-THE-"

"-SPAWN-"

"-SUCKING-"

"**DRAG****-**oh."

The Wolf let go of Jon, having finally noticed Viserion's corpse. He looked at it for some time, before suddenly striding over to it and punching it in the eye. But there was no response. The Night King's foul magics had died along with the caster.

The Wolf turned back to Jon, who was still struggling to catch his breath, jerking his head at the corpse.

"You kill it?"

It was some time before the half-strangled Jon could answer.

"N-no. He was about to eat me, then he just- collapsed. I don't know what-"

"Gods in the Warp, what _do_ you know?"

The Wolf looked around the battlefield in the rising dawn. Everywhere dazed soldiers were picking themselves up, surrounded by the crushed debris of what had once been an unstoppable army, not knowing what to do or where to go. Only the two surviving Crow Brothers at the main gate seemed unfazed, Wun Wun grabbing the wight-giant's skull as if to identify it.

Taking a deep breath, the Wolf took a stone from the low wall that had been Jon's refuge. Then, slowly and methodically, he squeezed it between the palms of his gauntleted hands until the stone shattered, not stopping until powder and gravel rained down. He expelled a great, controlled sigh.

"Two seasons' worth of plunder for the men, one for the sword, seven hundred and seventy-seven corpses to hire seven Crow Brothers, all for less than a sea-chest's fill of gold and trinkets, and not even a skull to show for it."

"A fine waste of time this night was. I'll feed that bastard Sven his own spleen before he whimpers his excuses at me."

Turning on his heel, the Wolf stormed off to the gate, bellowing at his men in his native tongue. Jon watched him go, casting a nervous look at the broken stone. The Night King was dead, that much was obvious, but what had happened to make the Wolf so infuriated at his victory?

He was still standing there when Arya came from the godswood, pushing Bran's chair. She still didn't understand why Melisandre had impressed on her how important it was that the Wolf not be able to claim the Night King's skull, but the Red Woman's warning had certainly been heeded.

* * *

In the crypts, Tyrion and Sansa looked in amazement as the wights collapsed and stayed unmoving, the blue glow in their eyes faded. Scarcely daring to believe their eyes, they wandered cautiously through the crypts, but everywhere they looked they saw corpses remain in their natural state.

A squeaking caught their attention. The Crow Brother's corpse, missing an arm, his stomach split from groin to chest, his jaw dangling from one side, was sitting against the wall of the crypt, surrounded by a thick carpet of wights and severed limbs in various stages of decay. His pet rat was nibbling on an exposed muscle near his ruined shoulder, looking up at Sansa and Tyrion before returning to its grisly meal.

Without the slightest hesitation, moving as of one mind, Tyrion grabbed the rat, allowing Sansa to stab it. They returned to the surface in silence.

* * *

From a small door leading to the great hall, Sandor emerged, holding up Beric with one arm over his shoulder. Melisandre followed without a word.

"Just- need to get patched up. Rest. I'll live."

Sandor looked doubtful, but he hauled Beric in the direction of the castle's infirmary.

"Wait..."

Melisandre moved around to pair to look Beric in the eye.

"You'll remember?"

"I will."

Nodding once, the Red Woman turned to head outside the castle. Davos Seaworth followed her, dagger in hand.

Some minutes later, he came back, his dagger clean, his face drawn.

* * *

In the aftermath of the battle, one man was not found among the dead. Sansa clutched a small emblem of the Stark direwolf in her hand.

If Theon was neither among the living or the dead, and she knew he would not have run from this battle, then he could only be among the risen dead, turned into a foul puppet by the White Walkers' sorcery and then set ablaze while crossing the trench or by a defender's torch.

She looked at the emblem in her hand. She would have liked to lay it on his body, to assure his spirit that she had forgiven him and that he was a Stark in mind if not by blood. She cursed the Wolf for having reassigned him to an anonymous death on the frontlines, rather than a redeeming sacrifice in defense of Bran.

The Wolf and what was left of his crew had left without warning, to no one's grief. In the queen's private council, even Jon and Arya's accounts of what had happened combined with what insight the Lannisters could give of his motives could make little sense of his actions, and Arya was deservedly toasted as the hero who had saved Westeros.

With the threat to all life gone, Danaerys and what remained of her court could now finally focus on her true goal: the Iron Throne.


	6. Chapter 5

In the clear skies above Dragonstone, Danaerys circled around the great island, the sheer exhilaration of flight causing her to forget her many worries for a few brief moments. The ships containing most of the Unsullied had arrived without trouble, the surviving Dothraki and Jon's armies were marching south, there would be little trouble in uniting both to march on King's Landing. Below her, Rhaegal followed his mother and brother, when he suddenly emitted a piercing squeal. Danaery's head whipped around.

A massive barbed bolt protruded from Rhaegal's throat, and another lodged in his chest even as she watched with horrified eyes. With a cry that chilled Danaerys' heart, the dragon fell into the sea below, nearly swamping one of the Unsullied ships.

The Iron Fleet's vanguard emerged from the rocky island that had screened their approach. From the prow of each ship another ballista fired death at the Dragonqueen.

With a screech of rage and grief, Danaerys sent Drogon into a dive, but the flurry of bolts pushed her back. Her heart heavy as lead, she pulled back to the safety of Dragonstone.

Euron Greyjoy grinned savagely as the ballista depressed, pointing straight at the anchored ships of Danaerys' fleet. The Iron Fleet pressed on at full sail, raining death before them, ripping through the hulls and sails of the defenseless Unsullied ships. Each ship's crew was singlemindedly concentrated on their task.

With an unearthly roar, the air off the Silence's starboard stern split open, vomiting a monstrous longship that continued moving, landing level with the flagship with a colossal splash. Euron snapped around, his jaw dropping.

"What the fu-"

The hideous maw of the longship's figurehead opened and snapped close on the prow of the Silence, bringing both ships to a juddering halt. The wooden dragon's neck twisted, bringing the two ships side by side. Straightaway its enormous crewmen leaped aboard the Silence, screaming bloody murder. The Ironborn, though taken aback at first by the surprise attack and the size of the boarders, responded with the fast instincts of lifelong pirates, and both sides were quickly locked in brutal melee, ignored by the the rest of the fleet. Both captains were quickly in the thick of it, roaring encouragement and threats.

"Fight you sons of whores, fight or I'll rip something else from your heads!"

"More blood, you dogs! Show these river-raiders that the Norsca are masters of the seas!"

Euron looked at the plate-covered giant exhorting his troops, who looked up at that moment. Staring at each other without fear, they closed on each other, Euron grabbing a boarding axe and a cutlass in his hands, his foe carrying a sword and shield adapted to his size.

"A neat trick, sea-rat, a biting ship! After I feed you to it I think I'll keep it for my own!"

"The name's Wolf, rust-born, and I would almost stand down for the pleasure of seeing you try! Would you like me to cut off an arm and a leg to give you a fair chance?!"

"No need, whoreson, you'll probably do that to yourself soon enough, I'm surprised you know which end of the sword is which!"

"I could say the same of yours! Is every man of the Iron Islands so flipper-handed that they cut out their tongues while shaving, or am I talking to a man who surrounds himself with incompetents to make his lack of skill seem less noticeable?"

Euron's eye twitched, but he rallied.

"You do anything but talk, or do you use that sword of yours for something other than widening out your holes so your sailors have an easier time going in?"

"I certainly do! Let me show you!"

The Wolf lunged forward, his blade flashing. Euron sidestepped the first blow and struck the giant in the shoulder, but the Wolf turned, a chained skull nearly slapping the axe out of Euron's hand. Before the barbarian had finished turning, Euron thrust out with the cutlass, this time nicking the back of his head.

"Was that it? My father hit me harder the time I stole his sword and killed the neighbor's best ram!"

Euron smirked despite the danger of the situation. The giant was far faster than his size should allow, and his jibes seemed to resonate in the mind.

"I imagine killing sheep is about all you're good for, ginger!"

The Wolf opened his mouth to reply, but Euron continued.

"And even then, only old sheep, blind in one eye and lame in three legs so you have less of a chance of getting hurt! Bigger they are, the bigger the coward!"

"But the smaller they are, the lesser the courage!"

The blades clashed, the Wolf's monstrous strength knocking Euron's sword out of his hand. Euron spared it a glance before stepping to the side, the Wolf's blade splintering the deck.

"Who the hell are you? It would've been known if a sow had given birth to a piglet in the shape of a man!"

"I am many things, iron-spawn, but for now, you may view me as your divinely-appointed end."

Euron spat.

"Gods? You know what I think of gods?"

"I know what you think of them. In fact, I share your opinion of them."

Euron looked up sharply, stepping back to avoid a thrust and countering with a two-handed blow that screeched against the giant's armor.

"However, it is not your weakling gods, petty things of wind and spray and ember, that brought me here. I serve gods of blood and thunder, of metal and courage."

Euron's axe smashed against the giant's pauldron, more annoyed than he cared to admit that the Wolf's conversational tone was getting under his skin.

"They tasked me with finding one who was as close to me as I could in this world. I'm glad to find we have so much in common."

"Common? You know who you're talking to, you ugly bastard?"

"Oh yes, Euron Greyjoy. Like me, you are a wanderer, a pirate, a raider, you've sailed from one end of the world to the other, you murder the priests of false and puny gods..."

The Wolf paused, though from his expression it was for effect and not from lack of words.

"We've both, for very different reasons and a different number of times, been inside your mother..."

Despite the blatant falsehood of the statement, Euron lunged forward, his axe clanging against the Wolf's shield.

"I will rip off your beard and use it as a featherduster!"

"I imagine you have great need for one, given how little you move around! I've seen less fat on a whale and more activity in the bed of Harald-Hundred-Years during his seventeenth wedding night!"

Euron swung wildly, the Wolf turning his head to allow the weapon to continue its course.

"Missed! Your crew have no tongues in their heads, are those glass eyes in yours? I wonder if you get that from your mother, she too would probably have had trouble recognizing the man who spawned you... if indeed he was even a man, and not a well-endowed donkey!"

Unaware of their captain's predicament, the remainder of the Iron Fleet was opening the distance between them and the Silence, the flagship's bulk hiding the longship from their view. Euron threw a glance behind him, but the Wolf seemed to catch his intention.

"Oh of course, how rude of me, attacking without waiting for you to have hundreds of men at your back! It's always good to see a man unafraid to admit his weakness and his reliance, no, his _dependence_ on others! Did you get that from your fath- your mother's husband letting every passing sailor drop anchor in her harbor, in the hopes that she'd finally know what a real man feels like?"

Snarling, Euron hacked viciously with his axe, a chip of metal flying off the Wolf's shield.

"I will not even kill you, I will cut off your tongue and your cock and reduce you to be the ship's whore!"

"Aha, I knew it was my cock you were after. So it really is true what they say about you Iron Islanders: Your fleets are powered by rotgut, buggery and floggings!"

Euron's axe hooked across the top of the Wolf's shield. He pulled sharply down, intending to bull into his opponent, but to his horror, the shield did not move an inch.

"Well, sea-slime? No strength in your arms? You should try pulling an oar or pushing a tiller once in a while, it builds muscle faster than touching yourself, and in both arms too!"

Cursing, Euron jumped back as the Wolf's sword came swinging down. Neither man lost his footing despite the roiling sea, but the Wolf was delayed when a mute and one of his own crewmen wandered in front of him, too engrossed in their own duel to pay attention to their surroundings. Euron took advantage of the distraction to jump across the gap to the Wolf's own ship, which was riding slightly lower in the water than the Silence.

"Get back here, fishbait, rats aren't meant to flee ships until they start sinking!"

Ignoring the taunt, Euron nearly tripped over an enormous chain, thick as a man's leg, one of several that radiated out from the mast in an eight-pointed star, passing over the gunwale and under the hull, bringing to mind the tentacles of some monstrous kraken clamping around a stricken ship. The taut chains trembled as if shaken from the other end, a stronger tremor telling him the Wolf had followed him overboard.

Euron grinned. Putting one foot on the chain, he vaulted from one to the other, slashing his axe through an astonished marauder's throat before the warrior could react. He approached the snarling dragon's head, a wooden eye rolling to glare at him, and he jumped the gap again with ease, rotating the Silence's prow-mounted ballista to face the longship.

As he'd expected, the heavily-armored giant had not yet caught up with him, having to pick and climb his way over the chains where a leather-wearing man could move faster. He pulled a bolt into place and pulled back the levers, the Wolf looking up as he cleared the chains, his shield at his side.

"What a long hard shaft you have there, rust-born! A shame the one between your legs has more in common with a dead squid than a-"

Euron pulled the trigger. The bolt shot forward, slamming into the Wolf's shield, deflected from its course to impale a marauder at the stern of the Silence. Even as he recovered his balance, the Wolf continued his taunts.

"So you can't aim either? When you drain your balls in your first mates' arse, does it end up in his mouth?"

Euron twitched, but slid another bolt into place as the Wolf took another step forward. The bolt struck the shield head-on, and there was a horrid screech as the metal wrapped around the arrow. Dropping the warped shield, the giant lunged forward, clearing the gap between the ships without hesitation.

"Those are expensive to fix, wave-rat, I hope your holds have enough metal in them! Or perhaps I'll drain your blood a pint at a time for a year to get the iron I need?"

Euron had slotted another bolt into the ballista, but it was too late: the Wolf's sword was already at his throat, the giant's arm pulled back and ready to thrust it into and through his neck.

"So, how-"

Euron leaped over the Silence's side, breaking the surface with barely a splash. He opened his eyes, and nearly lost what breath he had left. Under the monstrous longship, a pale serpentine shape as long as the ship itself was struggling to escape the enormous chains holding it captive. So hideous was the thing's appearance that Euron didn't notice the bigger splash behind him, and only when a metal-clad arm closed around his throat did his predicament come back to his mind.

His prey firmly in hand, the Wolf powered his way back to the surface, clearly accustomed to swimming even when clad in thick metal plate. Gripping a rope tossed to him by a marauder, he hauled himself up the Silence's side, dropping the sodden Euron to the deck next to the ballista and resting his hand on Euron's head, thumb and fingers applying just enough pressure to make it clear he could close them with little effort.

"Come now, rust-born, don't go spoiling the surprise!"

The Wolf bellowed something to his warriors. Instantly the surviving marauders fell back from the battle, lining up and crouching behind their shields, with the exception of one busy furiously bashing an Ironborn's head against the gunwale, indifferent to the splatter of bone and brains splashing his face. An irritated expression flew over the Wolf's face.

"Gunnar!"

The marauder showed no sign of having heard, the thankfully-dead Ironborn's brains staining the gunwale.

"Gunnar!"

Still the madman went on, despite his victim's skull now resembling a shattered pot of berry preserve.

"**GUNNAR!"**

The giant snarled as the berserker remained oblivious to everything but what remained of his enemy's head.

Grabbing the unshot bolt in his empty hand, the Wolf lobbed it like a throwing axe at the frenzied marauder. The impact broke the man's arm and knocked him off his feet, and he got up with a dazed look, seemingly unaware of his ruined limb. The Wolf yelled an order at him, and he joined his fellows behind the shield-wall.

The mutes of the Silence looked to their captain in some confusion. Twisting his head, Euron saw the Wolf looking thoughtfully at the massacre in the distance.

"Sven!"

Euron watched as a scarred old man clothed in wolf furs and raven feathers stood at the longship's prow, who started reading aloud from a glowing scroll in his hands. The Wolf nodded to the crew still onboard the longship, who immediately undid the massive chains attached to its mast, pulling out iron pins the length of a man's hand. The ship bobbed up as though freed from a great weight, and a pale shape shot forwards from beneath it, leaving a long wake as the sorcerer continued to chant.

"The fuck was that thing?"

The Wolf answered, dragging Euron's head to face the island without taking his eyes off the wake which was closing on a ship of the Iron Fleet.

"Merwyrm."

"Hasn't eaten for a week."

The wake disappeared, and there was no noise save for the sorcerer's continued chants. All eyes were on the Ironborn ship in the distance, which suddenly jolted as though it had rammed a reef at full sail. Then it slowly tilted to the side, panicking crewmen flailing as they were hurled overboard. They did not surface.

The crash of timber could be heard from the shoreline, and the Iron Fleet's assault ground to a halt as they tried to make sense of what was happening. Some sailed towards the stricken ship, others continued shooting at Danaerys' ships, others still turned back when they noted their flagship's absence.

"You know, sea-swine, I don't think this is going to work. Would you like us to start over?"

Euron looked startled. Of all the things the Wolf could have said, this was the least expected.

"... What?"

"You. Me. Holmgang."

"I will let you fetch whatever weapons, armor and trinkets you think will give you an edge, and we will fight each other, one-on-one. If you don't want to, well, I came here to kill you, and I can do that right now and save us both a lot of time."

Euron remained silent, goggle-eyed.

"Certain death now, or possible death later? Man to man, winner takes the loser's ship and crew. The Seafang for the Silence."

The Wolf's eyes darted towards Dragonstone and the Iron Fleet.

"Best decide quickly, while you still have a fleet."

In the distance, another ship keeled over and sank beneath the waves.

Glaring hate at the Wolf, Euron called out to his own crew.

"Alright, you bastards, stand down! Captain's making a deal here."

The Wolf smiled, showing a mouth full of fangs rather than teeth.

"Madman, but not witless."

The Wolf's hand released its pressure on Euron's head and pulled away. He turned around, barking orders at his crew. The shield-wall broke up, and several of the marauders jumped back aboard their ship.

Eyeing the boarding axe he'd dropped earlier, Euron briefly considered his chances at striking the giant while his back was turned, but from the way one of the helmeted marauders on the longship hefted a harpoon casually pointed at him and the way the Wolf's hand never left the skull that served as his sword's pommel, any desperate attempt at freedom was doomed from the start. Grinning sardonically at the harpooner, Euron merely stood up and disappeared into the Silence's cabin, the Wolf's roar audible even from belowdecks.

"HOLMGANG!"

A dozen marauders disappeared into the longship's hold and returned, each carrying a thick wooden plank reinforced with iron bands and long nails protruding from either end. The Wolf bellowed something that vibrated unpleasantly in the mutes' teeth, and the living prow untwisted slightly, leaving a gap of a dozen feet amidships. The crew laid the planks down across the gap to form a square platform between the Seafang and the Silence.

Euron re-emerged from the Silence's hold. His chest was covered by a breastplate of Valyrian steel, bearing a large battleaxe, and wearing a driftwood crown on his head. The Wolf nodded in satisfaction.

"Akkarulf!"

One of the Wolf's larger marauders dropped his harpoon and stepped up. Unlike the rest, who wore leather or furs, his head and torso were clad in metal armor, covered in runes like the Wolf's.

"Get me an oar-ring! Einarr!"

A bald sailor came forward as the hulking warrior stepped over the shieldwall. The Wolf gave him an order as Akkarulf bent over an iron ring embedded in the timber of the longship, muscles bulging as he used both hands to pull it out. There was a sound of splintering wood. The Wolf looked annoyed.

"_Without_ breaking my ship, Akkarulf!"

"Yes, you clumsy oaf, be careful with my future property!"

The Wolf's head snapped around at Euron, who seemed quite satisfied with his jibe. The return of the Wolf's henchman bearing a length of chain provided a distraction, although the Wolf sighed on holding it up.

"það er of lítið!"

Akkarulf handed the oar-ring, a circle of metal fitted with a spike, to his captain, eyes downcast at the rebuke. The Wolf took the oarring and pushed it through the middle of the platform, leaving only the ring protruding from the wood.

The bald marauder having given him a longer chain, the Wolf threaded it through the ring. He gave the end to Einarr, who quickly wrapped and knotted it around his captain's waist.

"Chains? Good thinking, ginger! Dense as your head is, your corpse'll sink as soon as it falls overboard!"

"Oh, it's not for me, squidborn. Usually, it's accepted that neither fighter would shame himself before the gods and run, and might in fact take offense at the implication that the chains were even needed. But seeing as _you_ show the same resolve as a newborn rabbit..."

The Wolf nodded once. Two marauders grabbed Euron's arms from behind, while a third tied the chain around the struggling Ironborn's waist. Then the two captains were left on the platform, their respective crews forming semicircles behind them.

One marauder banged a sword against a shield, which Euron took a the signal to begin.

He considered the situation carefully. The chain between them was slack, but he still had to be careful not to get it caught on the handle. The Wolf had only a sword in his hand and wore no helmet, but he was covered in armor that looked as thick as that of Cersei's monstrous bodyguard.

Behind the giant, his marauders were chanting his name, when he raised a hand, silencing them.

"Now, now, let's not be rude, the other side needs their turn! Shake the very sky with your cheers, Iron Islanders! Let us hear the name of your captain roared so loud the seas tremble, that your god might hear the name of his champion from beneath the waves!"

Depressing silence filled the air, broken only by the far-off echoes of the merwyrm's rampage. Euron felt a fresh burst of hatred as the Wolf turned his head, cupping a hand to his ear and screwing up his face as if struggling to hear a far-off sound. One or two of the Silence's crew looked pointedly at their captain for a second.

"Glad to see you know how to make a point, ginger! Is that the only way to make the collection of inbred idiots behind you understand anything?"

"Oh no, they understand when spoken to... and can even answer, unlike certain others I could name! An entire crew crippled just because you don't have the authority to stop them from backtalking? Was being a mediocre fighter not enough, that you need to prove yourself an piss-poor seaman as well? I wouldn't trust you to be captain of a rowboat!"

Behind the barbarian, the marauders were making obscene gestures involving tongues and fingers. Something in the Wolf's voice pushed Euron to justify himself, even as he could feel it to be a mistake, sheer indignation choking him and removing any dignity from his reply.

"Med-Mediocre?! I killed a _dragon!_"

The Wolf seemed no more impressed than before.

"Oh yes. **_A_** dragon."

The Wolf's sword slashed horizontally, but the blade left no mark.

"Singular."

The Wolf grabbed at the haft of Euron's axe, preventing it from splitting his skull in half, then pushed it back, aiming a thrust that glanced off Euron's breastplate, the Valyrian steel showing not even a pockmark from the impact. Irritation flashed across his features for an instant, but he quickly recovered.

"And what a battle it must have been, a mere man pitting his strength against teeth the size of swords, steel against scale, wits against fire, truly a tale worthy of the sagas- oh, I'm sorry, I'm thinking of the way _I_ fight dragons. But I'm sure your way counts for something, shooting it from ambush using a machine designed by a smarter man and paid for by a richer woman. Is there even a single achievement in your life that you and only you are responsible for?"

The sardonic tone triggered something in Euron, and before he quite realized what he was doing the words had already left his mouth.

"I killed a king!"

"Did you now. With poison or paid assassins? And in his sleep, no doubt, just to be safe."

Euron lunged, punctuating each sentence with a swing of his axe.

"I _killed_ him!"

"In single _combat!_"

"I _took_ from him!"

"The _crown!_

"That should have been _mine!_"

"From the _**start!**_"

The Wolf actually looked pensive as he deflected each blow with his sword.

" Already slightly better. I knew a man who had to kill his eight brothers to clear the way to the crown, then his father when the message didn't quite get through... A shame he didn't show the same drive over the rest of his life, the gods might have spared him his unenviable fate. You didn't kill your father too, just to be safe?"

Euron struck at the Wolf's leg, a timely parry preventing his axe from burying itself fully in the armored kneecap. He wrenched the weapon free, but the Wolf continued talking as though the Ironborn was the only one fighting for his life.

"That said, from what I hear the ranks of kingslayers in this world include a one-armed man, an old woman, and a pig."

The Wolf smiled.

"Quite the exalted company you belong to."

The look of amused contempt the Wolf gave Euron was such that he lunged, axe held high, swinging it in a heartfelt attempt to silence the barbarian's taunting. The Wolf wrapped the chain around his hand and pulled hard, bringing the Ironborn crashing to the deck mid-leap and slamming his cheek painfully against the oarring. Euron tasted blood from his own tongue.

"Can't even keep an even keel at sea, rust-born? Were you born this clumsy or did you take lessons? Give me the name of your teacher in idiocy so I can congratulate him on the summits his pupil has reached in the art of being a clown!"

The Wolf released the chain. Cheeks and eyes burning with hate, wiping the blood from his mouth, Euron stood up and backed away, his axe held ready to parry a blow.

"Easy for you to say, coward! You sit there playing at being a better fighter just because your mother fucked a bear! In a fair fight I'd already have had your tongue pulled out from a hole in your throat!"

Without breaking eye contact with Euron, the Wolf took four steps back and planted his sword in the wood at his side. He spread both hands wide and stepped forward until he was directly over the oar-ring separating them.

"Far from me the idea of denying a man the opportunity to prove himself. As you said, you are small and weak compared to most men, let alone a Norscan. This fair enough for you, or at least sufficiently unfair in your favor?"

Euron hesitated. It had to be a trap.

"Come on then, you short streak of fish-shit, I have no weapon, you're not going to get a better chance than this! No balls to back your boast, maybe?"

"Or are you just hiding your lack of skill behind your lack of courage? Do you prefer the shame of cowardice to the glory of a warrior's death?"

Euron's hands trembled as he hefted the axe, but a thought occurred to him. He swept the handle low, rewarded by the clink of metal, and lunged, swinging the axehead down, flinging a loop of chain over the Wolf's head and around his neck.

"What are-"

Dropping the axe, Euron dove between the Wolf's legs, turning around mid-landing to grab both lengths of chain. A wet coughing noise came from high above, and he pulled harder, his feet pushing against the Wolf's calves.

"What was that, _slut-_born_?_ You'll have to speak up, I can't seem to hear you from down heeaaaaaaa-!"

The Wolf's knees bent, and he violently sat on Euron's midriff. Feeling the breath driven from his lungs as his stomach seemed to collapse under the weight of man and armor, Euron's hands pushed desperately against the crushing mass of steel.

As the choked gurgling reached a fever pitch, the Wolf tranquilly lifted himself off the Ironborn and went to pull his sword out of the planks, giving Euron time to roll into a crouch and retrieve his weapon, one knee still on the wood, axe held low, his breath ragged and his vision blurred from lack of air, yet clearing by the hatred he felt for the insolent barbarian.

"Tired already, rust-born? Must run in the family, I know your mother sweats like a pig when she sucks my-"

The Wolf's sword smashed down, just as Euron's axe swung upwards, pushing himself from the ground. There was a clink of metal from both blades as the sword cleaved through the chain and the axehead sliced into the Wolf's cheeks, then stopped in mid-swing as his jaws snapped shut.

Euron tugged, but the axe did not move. Instead, the Wolf inhaled deeply, and clamped down on the axe. A deep growl came from the back of his throat.

To Euron's horror, cracks appeared under the fangs, snaking their way outwards, and finally the blade shattered. Spitting shards of twisted metal mixed with blood, the Wolf spoke.

"Well, I'd say that answers the question. The Silence is mine."

Looking up, the Wolf's gaze swept the deck of his new ship.

"The Silence is mine! Any of you don't like it, jump overboard right now, you'll save us both a lot of time!"

There was no objection from the tongueless Ironborn. Plucking the circle of driftwood from Euron's head, the Wolf turned it over in his hand.

"Make this yourself, rust-born? I suppose your hands aren't _completely_ useless. Maybe we'll put you to use in the pigpens, you might meet one of your half-siblings!"

At an order from their captain, two marauders grabbed Euron, wrapping the remains of the chain around his arms.

"Now, before I send you to meet your god, you're going to be useful to me in other ways. Fortunately for you, it only involves treachery, cowardice and, if I've been told truth, sleeping with a pox-flecked whore. Knowing your mother, that last part shouldn't be too hard."

The Wolf called out. Euron, and quite a few of the sailors from both crews, stared at the creature who emerged from the longship's hold.

The newcomer barely wore more clothes than a temple girl in the last stages of a veil dance, but that was not what caused their leering gazes.

The being's left side was that of a fair-haired youth, only a short time into manhood, a full blond beard covering a sharply-defined jaw and muscles rippling beneath the smooth skin with every movement, with a bare chest that looked strong enough to stop a bull mid-charge.

The right side was that of a stunningly beautiful woman, with a single breast barely covered by a band of cloth so tightly wound it might have been painted on. A face decorated with glittering cosmetics disappeared beneath a cascade of golden hair.

A silken loincloth hid the rest of its body from view, as all over its skin, glowing tattoos shaped vaguely like tilted arrows pulsed in time to the swinging of its hips.

The androgyne's gaze swept the decks, both halves of its face flushing as the crews stared, some gulping, others groping themselves.

"Akkarulf, stop staring, you'd think you never saw hir before."

The marauder started from his hypnotic fascination.

"Get this disgrace to sea-raiding down there. You know what you have to do."

As Akkarulf left to obey his captain's order, the Wolf stopped him.

"Wait."

He plucked the horned helmet from the marauder's head. There were shocked sounds from the Silence's crew at the sight, but Euron did not see them or their cause, still staring at the sinuous man-woman.

"Now you can go."

The outlanders picked up the Ironborn, followed by Akkarulf and the androgyne. The Wolf yelled out another order in his strange language. As he was frogmarched below, Euron caught a last glimpse of the sorcerer, who was making coiling motions with his hands and repeatedly pushing them downwards.

* * *

A short while later, the remains of the Iron Fleet raiders had pulled back from the harbor and whatever it was that had sunk half a dozen of their ships, leaving only a pitiful few of Danaerys' transports still at anchor.

From the Silence's cabin emerged Euron Greyjoy wearing his usual seaclothes, unchained and followed by the two marauders carrying his breastplate. A tiny pink symbol, the exact replica of those on the man-woman's body, still hovered over his forehead, then seemed to sink into his skin.

"Well?"

"Quite a change, but I could get used to this, Ser Wolf."

The Wolf's eyes narrowed.

"Er, yarrl."

"Hmph. Get this pile of flotsam to the rest of the fleet and pick up every survivor you can. Lock them up in the holds until I get back to you. Keep the fleet out to sea until Sven sends you a message."

"Yes, yarrl."

"And wear this."

Euron took Akkarulf's helmet, then gave the Wolf a questioning glance.

"Say it's a trophy."

"Ymar, hold that up..."

One of the marauders held the breastplate at arm's length as the Wolf hefted his sword in both hands.

"HrrrrAAAAAGGH!"

The Wolf dealt the armor a terrific blow that sent it smashing into Ymar's face. The marauder stumbled back two steps before collapsing on his back, his nose a broken ruin flooding his face with blood.

Paying no heed to the sailor's plight, the Wolf examined the fallen armor. There was still not even the slightest dent or scratch to be seen on it.

"Hmph. Good steel they make here. Greyjoy."

"Yes, yarrl."

"Keep it, in case the Dragonqueen's minions get overzealous."

As the marauders returned to their own ship and the Silence's crew looked to their captain in some confusion, Euron put a hand on the mast, looking out towards Dragonstone.

"Get the nets out, we're going fishing!"

The dragon prow released its hold on the Silence, then turned and surged forward as the Seafang's rowers moved it behind the rocks that had hidden the Iron Fleet from Danaerys' sight.

Euron took a last look at the Seafang, its crew reattaching the chains to the mast. With a bellowed order from his captain, the sorcerer at the prow continued chanting, but now repeatedly brought his hands back towards him. The Seafang disappeared behind the island, and Euron turned his thoughts to the Wolf's assignment.

* * *

Missandei gasped as she surfaced, struggling to grab onto a spar. Around her, other shipwrecked members of Danaerys' army held grimly onto whatever floating wreckage they could.

Rough hands grabbed at her hair and arms and hauled her aboard a rowboat, retching and coughing. When she had regained her composure and was sure her lungs held only air, she looked up.

"Thank you, I-"

She stopped immediately on recognizing the sailors who had rescued her, the one who'd pulled her out binding her legs to her arms.

The Ironborn said nothing as they continued dragging men and women from the water, returning them all to the Silence.


	7. Chapter 5,3

That evening, a heated conference had just ended in Dragonstone between the surviving leadership of Danaerys' army. The Dragonqueen had been narrowly convinced by her advisers (even Tyrion, who'd barely avoided drowning that very morning) to give Cersei a final chance at parley before facing complete destruction. At least this way the fault would lie with the usurper queen if she still refused to see sense.

A Dothraki entered the hall and stood before his queen.

"Khaleesi, there is a man outside asking for audience."

Danaerys looked up from the painted table where she was planning as best she could to recover from the crippling loss Euron and Cersei had inflicted on her. They had destroyed most of her ships, and many of her Unsullied and advisers were now lying on the seafloor, or worse, in the hands of Euron's raiders. Yet it was the unknown fate of Missandei that nagged at her most.

The Iron Fleet had unexpectedly called off their assault after their ships had mysteriously struck reefs none of the Dragonstone natives remembered charting, and already there was uneasy talk of monsters from the deeps awoken by Rhaegal's corpse sinking into the sea. But despite the providential destruction of their enemies, Danaerys' surviving ships had been in no condition to pursue the fleet or even stop them from taking prisoners from the waters as easily as if they were collecting driftwood.

"Did he say why?"

"Only that he leads a band of sellswords, and is offering his services."

"Another one... Send him in. We'll need all the men we can get to take the city."

After reaffirming her intent to take King's Landing by force, Danaerys started as the unmistakable armored bulk of the Wolf entered the hall, followed by a smaller man. He had somehow contrived to carry even more skulls on his person since the last time she'd seen him, including the head of what looked like a turquoise-scaled lizard, if lizards grew to the size of horses.

"You again? We did not see you after the battle for Winterfell."

"I had obligations to other powers. I have now come to offer you my aid."

Danaerys considered it, while Tyrion looked uneasy. She deeply regretted the absence of Sansa, on who the Wolf's abrasive personality had little effect.

"Still in exchange for a skull?"

"A skull... and ten coffers of gold. And whatever plunder we can carry."

Danaerys raised an eyebrow as her court muttered darkly.

"Ten? You did not want payment last time."

"True, because I had thought it was a venture that would pay for itself. Now I have debts to pay, warriors to feed, you know how it is."

Danaerys looked around her. The room was full of advisers, but none seemed willing to bear the responsibility of hiring the Wolf, while none of her bodyguards seemed to relish the prospect of escorting him out. Tyrion was shaking his head desperately. She looked back at the barbarian.

"We do not have the means to hire you."

The Wolf shrugged, as if the refusal meant nothing to him.

"So be it. There are other opportunities for employment around here. I've heard tell a House Lannister is looking for men, they seem to fear an imminent invasion."

Danaerys started. The Wolf was looking her straight in the eyes, as if daring her to kick him out. For a moment she contemplated calling for Drogon to incinerate him. But she knew she had to control herself, and her Targeryen blood, lest she become the monster her allies feared in her. Already Varys was starting to show signs of weakness, opposing her most rational decisions and disbelieving in her destiny.

She had lost one of her children and far too many soldiers today, and Missandei had still not been found. She had to remain strong for the sake of the others who looked to her for guidance. There had to be a way to resolve this peacefully.

Then a small detail came to her mind.

"Arya mentioned you had a ship?"

"That I do."

The Wolf took on a self-satisfied expression.

"And it... flies?"

"It does."

Mutters filled the room, but before any could voice an objection, the Wolf spoke again.

"It flies, but it's a moody little bitch; needs to feed on near a hundred men before it'll get up. And sometimes it's even fussier, one time it wouldn't lift off before I'd specifically fed it murderers, whores, traitors and plague victims. While five days away from the coast. Took us two weeks to get what it wanted, we could have rowed halfway to Araby in that time. You have that kind of manflesh lying around?"

Danerys' councilors looked horrified. Without outright stating their opposition, they tried to silently beg their queen to do no such thing, one mouthing "Cersei" to get her to understand whose level she would sink to.

Danaerys saw their efforts and understood them. She could not in nearly the same breath be the Breaker of Chains and visibly participate in human sacrifice. She pretended to ponder the matter.

"I see. However, I add a condition to your price."

The giant said nothing, but now it was his turn to raise his brows.

"We will need protection from the Iron Fleet, and have lost many of my transports. For ten chests of gold, I will hire you, your men, and your ship, to use as I see fit."

The Wolf looked unabashedly surprised while behind her Tyrion winced, both in anticipation of the Wolf's reaction and the upcoming hole in Dragonstone's treasury.

"You- you mean to use the Seafang as a _ferry_? The greatest longship the North has ever seen or made, reduced to carrying the weak and wounded!?"

The giant's voice, usually a thunderous growl, had risen into a furious roar. And yet as hands went to hilts, before their astonished eyes, the Wolf had dropped back into his dangerously informal mien, as if the island's volcano had erupted and then spooled its lava back inside. Danaerys felt a quiet satisfaction that for all his crass bluntness, the Wolf's ego could still be punctured.

"Well, first time for everything, I suppose. I accept your terms, Dragonqueen."

"Einarr here will watch over the gold, won't you Einarr?"

The Wolf's acolyte, hearing his name being spoken, stepped up and nodded vigorously as the Wolf repeated the statement in their own tongue. Tyrion stared hard at him. The marauder had been at the battle of Winterfell not long ago, but his beard was now much longer, as if it had been left to grow for the better part of a year, and his bald head bore several long-healed scars Tyion did not remember seeing at the last stand of mankind. Jingling his purse to get his attention and intent across, the former Master of Coin led the marauder away towards the treasury.

"The Seafang will be in the harbor in six days."

Once again the Wolf turned on his heel and was out the door without taking his leave. Danaerys watched him go, reflecting that this was probably as much respect as he would show, before her mind turned to more pressing matters. Only the brief thought occurred that he had not mentioned whose skull he was after.

* * *

That night, Tyrion and Varys held an urgent conference. Their queen's behavior was getting dangerously close to the very tyrants she had sworn to overthrow, eclipsing even the presence of the expensive and inscrutable murderer of the Mountain suddenly showing up again. When the left each other, neither man was certain of where the other's loyalty would lie if the parley failed.

* * *

Three days later, the Iron Fleet sailed triumphantly into King's Landing. The fleet seemed to have lost quite a few ships along the way, but the remains vomited a flood of prisoners, duly chained and paraded through the streets and into the dungeons, led by Euron Greyjoy wearing a slightly-oversized helmet with forward-sweeping horns, a repeat performance of his earlier victory over the Sand Snakes and his niece.

From her window in the Red Keep, Cersei watched the heavy-handed display, sipping a goblet of wine. Euron had done his job well, and the little bitch was now deprived of many of her men, even with the bulk of her army still on its way under the leadership of Ned Stark's bastard. Things were going perfectly, all thanks to her own brilliance, the ingenious political mind her father had always refused to acknowledge.

* * *

"Strickland!"

In the courtyard below, Harry Strickland, commander of the Golden Company, turned around. Euron Greyjoy was headed straight for him, and dragged him to a secluded corner.

"You remember what you said about your elephants?"

Strickland stared.

"That the voyage was too long for them?"

"Exactly. Now, I've found a way to get around that little problem."

Euron patted the horned helmet hooked to his waist.

"We've got a little while before the dragon-bitch gets here, but we still need to move fast. Meet me on the Silence this evening."

Euron turned and headed into the keep, leaving Strickland unsure of what had just happened.

* * *

At the window of her bedchamber, Cersei heard Euron's approach long before he'd opened the door.

"Right! Piss off, you lot, got plenty of things to tell the queen! Go see if Gregor's sprung any leaks and plug them up, will you?"

Euron slammed the door in Qyburn's affronted face, and went to Cersei with a conquering stride.

"Dragonqueen's down one dragon, and almost all her ships! Not bad, eh?"

Cersei smiled at him, though it did not quite reach her eyes. Her gaze went to the extravagantly-horned helmet covered in strange symbols Euron carried at his hip.

"Where did you get that?"

"This? Picked it up from one of the ships. The little bitch is hiring mercenaries now. Piss-poor ones too, but at least they have pretty little toys."

"Who knows, maybe it'll be in his size?"

Cersei glanced down. Her belly was not yet visibly swollen, nor was the child formed enough to start moving. She turned again, looking out the window. Moving swiftly, Euron stood behind Cersei, running and squeezing his hands over her body. It was just as well he could not see her face.

"Ahhh, killed my enemies, saw them driven before me, and heard them crying. Gods alone remember when I've ever been this hard."

"You swear by the gods now?"

"Well, I just killed a dragon, only man in the world with that claim right now. Guess you could say I've found religion."

"And now let me show you what else a man of the Iron Islands can do with a long hard shaft..."

In a single movement he had grabbed her hair and wrapped an arm around her waist, twisting her head around.

He forced his tongue into her mouth, then lifted her bodily and dropped her on the bed.

* * *

As the western sky turned red as blood, Euron pulled his clothes back on, wiping his finger on the sheets.

"I'll be gone for a little while."

There was no response from the bed, Cersei's eyes still unfocused, her face flushed and her chest heaving. Euron turned back just before leaving the room.

"But I'm bringing you a surprise."

* * *

As the light faded and the torches of the harbor were lit, Strickland walked up the gangplank of the Silence, wondering what the Ironborn had planned. Euron had a reputation as a sorcerer, but how did he plan to move elephants across the Narrow Sea before Danaerys' forces attacked? The commander of the Golden Company stopped before a mute, who looked him up and down before pointing towards the prow, where Euron was talking to two shapes he could not make out.

"There you are, Strickland! Come up here! Crew! Haul anchor, we're leaving!"

Strickland started as the gangplank was pulled up and the Silence pushed away from the dock, the crew pulling ropes with practiced efficiency. Then he saw Euron looking at him.

"Oh, don't worry about your men, we'll only be gone a day or two. The dragon-bitch'll keep, it'll take her a while to meet up with her Snow boytoy."

"Now come here."

From close up, Strickland looked at Euron's associates. One was a scarred old man wearing wolf furs and bearing a staff decorated with feathers, amulets and a mummified raven. He could not help but stare at the other, a towering, shapeless mass bigger than Ser Gregor, covered head to toe in sailcloth bound with ropes at the joints, with only two ragged and uneven eyeholes to mark its face. The thing's hands were covered in crude gloves made from dark fur. A chain that could have been used to hold a bull went around its neck, the other end wrapped around the sorcerer's free hand.

"That there's Sven Swordeater, a sorcerer from the North. Kicked out from his tribe for his experiments, or so he tells me. And that's his most successful experiment and assistant, named Grongo or Mongo or something."

Strickland could not keep his gaze from the monstrosity.

"Best for all involved if you don't try to see what he looks like under that cloth, last idiot who tried was half-eaten by the time we pulled them apart. He's touchy about his looks, aren't you Bongo?"

The thing under the sailcloth uttered a weird ululating sound, halfway between a bear and a walrus.

"Good man-thing. Delicate and shy as a young maiden, is Trongo. Sven, when you're ready."

The sorcerer looked at the receding city and shook his head.

"Not do here, captain. Too big risk. Need ship out in deep water."

"That so."

Euron stared at Sven a little longer than was necessary, before grinning and clapping him on the shoulder.

"Well, if you say so. Come on, Strickland. The captain's cabin awaits, and I'll have grub brought up for Sven. And a big juicy live rat for Drongo, eh?"

The thing let out another warble, although with a distinct undercurrent of menace this time. Euron went belowdecks, only assigning a pair of mutes to watch the sorcerer and his pet.

* * *

Some hours later, Euron emerged from his cabin, Strickland in tow. The Silence had come to a halt near the northern coast of Blackwater Bay, lights blazing fore and aft of the massive ship, and as Strickland watched, an equally enormous longship approached from the port bow.

Sven waved a torch, and called out to the longship in his own language. The longship's stern was soon brought to the Silence's prow, and soon both crews were busy throwing ropes to each other, securely tying the two ships together. Though not a sailor, Strickland thought it odd that after the ropes were tied off, stout steel chains were also stapled to the Silence's bowsprit and the longship's stern.

Once the ships were bound to Euron's satisfaction, the sorcerer and his shambling slave crossed over to the longship, while a number of the longship's crew boarded the Silence, clad in thick metal armor covered in spikes and furs.

"I've never seen armor like that on a Wildling."

"That's because Wildlings don't have to fight the things we're going to face."

Strickland looked hard at Euron.

"The hell's going on, Greyjoy?"

Euron's face took on a smug grin. Strickland fought the impulse to punch him.

"Simple."

"Sven here knows a shortcut that can take us to Essos in less than a day. Less than an hour, in fact, by his reckoning. But, it involves going through the homes of things that don't much like intruders."

"So, we go through, avoid being seen, make port in Essos, take a day to get the ships and the elephants together, another to load them up and chain the ships, and we'll be back in King's Landing before the sun sets on the third day."

Strickland could only stare in horror at the madman standing before him. Before he could draw his sword, a great shout came from the longship before them. The sorcerer had lit a fire in a brasero and was shouting incantations, punctuated by a drum smashed with enthusiasm by his acolyte and a rattle shaken by one of the crewmen who had been tied to the mast. The longship's crew were at the oars, pulling in time to the shaking of the rattle. The Silence slowly followed.

The sorcerer threw handfuls of powder into the fire, causing multicolored flames to flare up, and as the drumming reached a fever pitch let forth an unholy screech, echoed by his assistant, who dropped the drum to scream even longer and louder, the sound buzzing and scraping at Strickland's mind.

Before Strickland's horrified eyes, the very air in front of the longship split open into a roiling mist that brought to mind a suppurating wound. The longship hurtled inside, followed by the Silence.

* * *

Inside the hole was even worse. An overpowering nausea struck Strickland, for there was no horizon and no water below, the ships seemed to be floating in a permanent fog, at the same time distant and close by, with the frantic movement of the oars and the taut ropes the only hint that they were moving. Lights appeared in the fog and quickly became burning eyes, glaring malevolently at them.

"Draw your sword, Strickland, here they come!"

Strickland gaped as the fog seemed to take shape, a long gray tendril solidifying into a clawed arm. His hand was only halfway to his sword when the arm fell to the ground with a shriek, one of the longship's armored fighters having chopped it with his vicious-looking axe.

"Draw your fucking sword you daft cunt, I still need you alive!"

Snapping out of his stupor, Strickland managed to free his blade. Everywhere on the Silence the armored warriors were hacking and slashing at the entities invading the ship, Euron impaling one on his twin swords. One popped up in front of Strickland himself, who struck at it reflexively. It screamed at him in a way that incongruously reminded him of his mother's voice and faded away.

He risked a look behind him. Over on the longship things were going only slightly better, the sorcerer's pet giant running the entire length of the ship, striking at the entities before they could fully form. But even this was not enough to protect the crew, and one of the rowers broke out of his trance, released his oar, and jumped screaming over the side of the ship. The thing let out a howl, muffled by the cloth over its head.

Another fog demon formed before Strickland, slashing at his cheek. He immediately thrust at the thing's face, or at least the place that had the most eyes and mouths, and was rewarded with an ear-piercing yell.

Suddenly the fog lifted. Sea air once again entered Strickland's nose, and he gripped the Silence's gunwale to empty his stomach over the side, a splitting headache smashing at his temples.

"Well, what'd I tell you?"

Euron stood grinning, sheathing his swords. Strickland looked up. On the blessedly fixed horizon was a collection of lights so intense it could only be a city. On his first voyage, they had left during the day, but from the arrangement of the lights he was certain it was Pentos.

"King's Landing to Pentos in less than a day. Not bad, eh?"

Still feeling nauseous, Strickland did not answer, unsure that he would be able to prevent himself from strangling Euron. Already the longship's crewmen were undoing the ropes and chains linking it to the Silence. One of the armored fighters was looking blankly at the blood-spurting stump of his arm, a jagged wound that left three clear inches of bone sticking out from the ruined flesh.

"We'll take the Silence into port. Send the word to get the elephants ready at first light tomorrow, giving you a night to get your stomach back where it should be, and negotiate the ships in the morning."

Despite his stomach threatening to rise up and return more of its contents, Strickland managed to answer.

"We're going through _that_ again? The elephants won't last a minute once those things get in the hulls!"

"True, but only if the men on deck falter. The bastard things prefer souls to meat, but they eat both. We'll split the longship's crew among the cogs, but your goldenboys will have to pull their weight. Best hope they're worth their pay."

Euron hopped ships one last time to confer with the shaman and his acolyte, then returned to the Silence. The longship disappeared into the dark, while the Silence sailed into the port of Pentos. Before dawn the remainder of the Golden Company had been alerted, and as Euron had predicted, took two days to muster the elephants and the ships to carry them.

* * *

As dawn fell on Dragonstone six days after the Iron Fleet's raid, the harbor was a flurry of activity, Danaerys' closest advisers preparing to leave the island and head for Queen's Landing. The Seafang and its unpredictable captain had made port in the night.

Having given her orders, Danaerys and her closest advisers stood on the docks and looked at the massive longship, waiting for the Wolf to explain his absence. Near them, his henchman awaited with the gold coffers that were to pay the warband.

Varys arrived in a hurry, having sent a few last-minute messages. Danaerys stopped him in his tracks.

"Not you. I need you as spymaster while I'm gone."

Varys started, although his face betrayed no further emotion. He seemed about to speak, but Danaerys kept going.

"And I can't have you and Tyrion on the same ship if it's sunk."

Varys smiled, although he felt unsure of the Dragonqueen's sincerity.

"Einarr!"

The Wolf appeared on deck, shouting instructions to the marauder even as he descended the gankplank and walked up the jetty. The luckless Einarr grabbed one of the chests and slowly started dragging them aboard, the rest of the crew being apparently occupied with ropes and moorings. If the Wolf had noticed Danaerys waiting for him he showed no sign of it, any concept of deference due to an employer clearly nowhere on his mind.

Aware that the insufferable barbarian was still necessary to her invasion, Danaerys took a deep breath before speaking.

"Ser Wolf. Might I ask what you've been doing since I last saw you?"

The Wolf turned to look at her.

"Fishing. For information, among other things."

Danaerys' lips thinned.

"And what have you found?"

"The Iron Fleet haven't entirely gone home. There's still a few ships patrolling the bay, since they know they you have a few seaworthy ships left."

Danaerys nodded. She was no sailor, but it made sense.

"Very well. My first order is that you take my courtiers near King's Landing. I will go first on Drogon. Do you have a plan?"

The Wolf looked out to sea, then at the sky, seeming to think it over.

"Yes. We'll take one ship, fast enough to outrun them and their bolt throwers. They don't even sail in pairs, the cocky bastards. So if we run into one..."

The Wolf smiled broadly.

"We either outrun it, which shouldn't be hard, or fight it, which should be easier."

"I forbid it."

The Wolf looked surprised, but Danaerys held firm.

"You will take my advisers to the east end of Blackwater Bay and avoid battle. I'm not paying you to put them at risk. My Unsullied will throw your gold over the side at the first sign of an Ironborn ship if you don't immediately sail away from it, is that clear?"

There was an uneasy silence, hands hovering near hilts behind Danaerys. Thankfully the tension was broken by the Wolf's henchman cursing vigorously as he dragged another heavy coffer aboard the longship. The barbarian shrugged.

"As you wish. We should be there in three days if the wind holds... and you don't take too many onboard."

"Half a dozen men, and them."

The Wolf's head turned to where Danaerys was pointing.

A contingent of downcast-looking Dothraki, weaponless and on foot, had assembled on the docks, their hair shorn close, waiting for their khaleesi's command. The Wolf looked curiously at them.

"Don't those horse-lovers of yours usually have longer hair?"

Danaerys gave them a look, the memory spurring a fresh bout of contempt.

"They are worthless curs who can regain their honor by giving their lives for mine... and none of them were aboard the ships that were sunk. They'll be the first to die at the siege."

The Wolf nodded, clearly approving, which set off uncomfortable thoughts in Danaerys' mind, though she managed to avoid showing it.

"How'd they lose it?"

"They survived the battle against the dead by fleeing, and hiding in the woods. And if that wasn't enough, made up a story about fighting a dragon in the woods that left no corpse behind."

"A dragon?"

"Or some kind of fire-breathing monster. In the _snow_."

Danaerys' voice was nothing but contempt. Though they could not hear her, the disgraced bloodriders could tell their story was being discussed, and some winced.

"I wasn't sure whether to punish them for their cowardice or thinking me fool enough to believe their story."

Danerys looked up. For a second she was pleased to see that her story had had an effect on the barbarian, then shocked to see what that effect was. The Wolf was looking over the Dothraki and muttering under his breath, before fixing his gaze on her, with a disturbingly excited look.

"Dragonqueen. Sell me those men."

"What?!"

"Their lives are of no worth to you, only their deaths. Sell them to me, I can put them to better purposes. I will give you back three chests of your gold for them."

Danaerys stared again. The Wolf was completely unpredictable, he'd just proved it again, what would he want these men for?

"I will not deal in slavery, Ser Wolf. Not now, nor ever."

"Slavery? It's not slavery, they can leave whenever they want... if they prefer the straw-death to the bloody end of battle."

The Wolf shook his head.

"Put them under my command, as I am under yours, at least until the city is taken. If they still have yet to prove their worth by then, you will do as you see fit."

Danaerys kept looking at the Wolf. This had to be a trap, although she could not guess its purpose. She also felt entirely skeptical that he would obey her orders as easily as he intended the Dothraki to obey him.

Memory struck all of a sudden.

"You do not intend to sacrifice them to make your ship fly?"

The Dragonqueen's tone would have been made most men cower, but the Wolf merely shrugged.

"Them? No, they wouldn't do, especially for a three-day voyage. Fussy eater, is the Seafang."

Danaerys nodded, only half-reassured.

"Then what will you do with them?"

"Well for starters... put them to the oars. We'll make better progress than if they're just dead weight in the hold."

Danaerys looked over the bloodriders again. It was true that they would be of little use during the crossing, and even then she had not pondered their punishment much further. Varys walked over and whispered in her ear. She turned again and looked the Wolf in the eye.

"Four chests."

"Done."

The barbarian turned.

"Einarr!"

The Wolf's henchman, sweating freely from the effort of hauling all ten heavy coffers onto the ship, appeared at the gangplank, smiling wanly. At the Wolf's barked command, the smile disappeared and his eyes goggled, grabbing the gunwale for support and looking wildly from his captain to Danaerys. His hands opened and closed convulsively, he stood up to his full height, opened his mouth, then whatever inner resistance had flared up died just as quickly, his spine seemed to curve on itself and he turned around, looking even more broken and dejected than the Dothraki.

"I'll go explain while your gold comes back."

The Wolf planted himself before the bloodriders, who looked at him with wariness at first, then shock as he spoke in their own tongue.

"Horse-lovers! Cowards and gutless worms, all of you!"

"From this day you are mine to command, unworthy of belonging to the Dragonqueen's army until you prove yourselves men and warriors! If you ever want a blade in your hand and a horse under your legs again, you will obey without question and without comment!"

"Did I make myself clear, or are your ears still full of horseshit? I have a very efficient earpick here, if need be!"

The Wolf drew his blade. Even if they had been left their arahks, the lightly-armored Essosi would not have tried it. The Wolf's gaze swept the assembled Dothraki.

"Cowards, but not madmen. Good! Now..."

The Wolf's sword pointed at the towering pile of food and equipment that waited to be loaded on the ships.

"You can start by getting everything there onboard. I'll make seamen of you grasslanders yet, or my father was a hairbarrel. Einarr!"

The henchman, hearing his name called and putting down the fourth chest on the docks, winced and turned to face his captain. A few orders later, his face brightened considerably, and he looked with relish at the Dothraki.

"Obey that man as you would obey me, and no one needs to lose an ear... or other extremity. Work hard, work well, and you'll see how the Norsca reward men who claim to have killed a fire-worm."

Leaving the marauder to bawl at the Dothraki until they were hauling crates to his satisfaction, understanding his gestures and tone rather than his speech, the Wolf sheathed his sword and turned to Drogon, who was awaiting on the stone docks for his mother to climb up on him.

The Wolf's mouth moved in ways that seemed no different from an ordinary man's, and yet the snarls and chirps that issued from it had only been heard from Drogon and his brothers.

The dragon's head also turned, and responded in kind. The Wolf made another rumble like a distant avalanche and fell silent, seemingly content with the result. Danaerys went to Drogon without another word, unwilling to acknowledge the fact that the barbarian could communicate with her child far better than she could.

Tyrion and Varys approached the Wolf cautiously.

"What did you say?"

The Wolf looked surprised, Tyrion balling his fists as the Wolf's gaze searched around at man-height before dropping down to him.

"Asking him if he knew where to go if she was hurt. We can't have him land on the ship, he'd capsize us, and unless we build a pontoon big enough for him and tow it all the way to the coast..."

The Wolf shrugged, then barked something at the longship. An aged man wearing a wolfskin, hunched over a staff, descended the gangplank and headed for the keep. Tyrion and Varys looked at him curiously, the dwarf recalling his presence at Winterfell.

"You're leaving him behind?"

The Wolf did not even spare his underling a glance.

"Sorcerers."

Varys looked up sharply.

"I'd keep the old bastard with me to keep an eye on him, but with a ship full of people your queen needs alive... Best to keep him away from us, it's hard to stab someone in the back where there's a sea between you."

The Wolf's face contorted, and he spat bitterly.

"And sometime's that's not enough."

Varys spoke up, still keeping an eye on the retreating wolfskin.

"You distrust him?"

"I've never trusted sorcerers, I'm not about to start now. At least here the worst he can do is poison any man stupid enough to buy a potion off him."

Tyrion considered his next move carefully. The Wolf had admitted to owning a flying ship. From the confused reports of the Mountain's defeat, it supposedly appeared from nowhere as well.

"But your ship, and your mastery of tongues-"

"Gifts fom the Gods."

The Wolf's tone made it remarkably clear that such gifts were to be considered magic at Tyrion's peril.

"The Seafang flies, and hide itself so it seems the very air swallowed it, but it needs no sorcerer on it to do so, only its captain may decide its course. There were a few wizards who've tried to take it from me, I let them work their feeble spells over it until they ceased to amuse me and fed them to it."

"And yet, at Winterfell..."

The Wolf gave him an annoyed glance, but he pressed on.

"The weapons you used against the Night King, and the... crow-men you brought along. You're telling me there was no magic in that?"

"Don't remind me. Damn near three year's worth of voyages the entire thing cost me, and to what result? A half-thawed mute with a face like a dog's arsehole who shatters like Tilean glass the moment you touch him, and corpses whose only worthwhile possessions came from those of my crew who joined them. Serves me right for thinking sharp steel wouldn't be enough."

"So you... won't be using them again?"

"Who? The Crow Brothers? They were useful in the cold, but down here, where a man can smell a corpse from a mile away in midday..."

Reassured as to the absence of the unnaturally resilient warriors, and as the Wolf seemed to be in a more tolerant mood than could be expected from the Mountain's slayer, Tyrion pressed his advantage.

"I have heard, Ser Wolf, that you do not take kindly to being called a sellsword. And yet here you are fighting for gold. May I ask why?"

The Wolf's face darkened.

"The answer good enough for your queen should be good enough for _you_, half-man. I have warriors under me, who fight for glory but need more solid payment."

Tyrion looked behind him. The returned coffers were being dragged back to Dragonstone's treasury, the marauder called Einarr watching them with a visibly pained expression.

"Then perhaps you would be open to getting more?"

The Wolf looked at Tyrion, but said nothing. Tyrion gestured towards the keep.

"Somewhere more private."

Instead of answering, the Wolf grabbed Tyrion in a single hand, marching to the end of the pier next to a moored ship's lowered gangplank. There he extended his arm, dangling the dwarf over the water.

"Private enough?"

"Q-Quite. I want to hire you as a bodyguard."

The Wolf said nothing, but neither did he loosen his grip.

"You once defended my life, for... reasons that are your own, now do so in exchange for whatev-"

Tyrion stopped himself in time, acutely aware of the dangers of promising too much to people determined to take him at his word.

"In exchange for a reasonable price."

The Wolf snorted, but smiled. Backing up, he delicately placed Tyrion down on the nearby gangplank so they were now at eye level.

"Your bodyguard, you say. I should have thought a man who killed his own father with a crossbow would be quite adept at defending himself. In fact, I have heard other stories concerning you being armed with naught but a shield, and yet killing a man twice your size with it."

Tyrion's blood grew cold, but he had faced more dangerous negotiators before.

"Mere chance. A man in my position has many enemies, not all of them on the battlefield."

"And what manner of enemies would these be?"

"... A man who has some complaint about my family's treatment of him, and now works for my sister. Protect me from her, and I will see to it that you are richly rewarded."

"Your family's treatment, you say. What treatment, exactly?"

"He... He made demands that could not reasonably be asked for, and yet still held himself to be the betrayed party."

"What sort of demands?"

"Well... He wanted to inherit the lands and titles of one of the Seven Houses, despite having no tie of blood to them. He only had a title through my brother's rewards in the first place."

"Ahh, ambition. I know the problem well. And yet, despite this, he works for your sister."

"She is the one with the gold, at present."

The Wolf seemed to consider it.

"And what guarantee do I have that your word is worth more than hers?"

Tyrion was unable to stop the cursed sentence from leaving his mouth.

"A Lannister always pays his debts. My House has been around long enough that it's become proverbial."

The Wolf looked at Tyrion.

"Not much of a warcry. A single man?"

"A sellsword, by the name of Bronn Blackwater. My sister hired him to kill me... using the very same crossbow you mentioned."

"Did she now."

The Wolf seemed to be making an effort to remember something.

"It has been some months, but... I believe I said your sister was a very interesting woman. I see this still holds true."

Tyrion started. Some months? The battle for the dawn was fresh enough that most of the men still had nightmares involving blue-eyed corpses, why did he claim it was months prior? The Wolf pressed on.

"So, I am to maintain you alive and well until your sister is dead and the city taken, preventing this Brenn or other cutthroats-for-hire from claiming the price on your head. And what will you pay me to ensure your skin remains intact? I certainly hope you can offer a better deal than her, she seems to have gold to spare."

Tyrion's mouth went dry.

"Three coffers of gold. Paid once the city is taken and the gold back in my hands."

The Wolf seemed to mull it over.

"Three chests of gold, _and_ expenses, to be paid once the city is taken... and one other thing."

Tyrion's lips were set, having expected this blow.

"What?"

"I want that crossbow."

Tyrion stared, but the Wolf did not look like he was jesting.

"The cross-? Very well."

"It is done, then. Now let's go, the tide's going out."

The Wolf returned to his ship, leaving Tyrion to trot after him. The ship having been loaded to the crew's approval, he personally showed the courtiers and bodyguards on board.

Before midday the Seafang was out of the harbor at full sail, heading westward at breakneck pace thanks to its rowers being regularly replaced by Dothraki whose enthusiasm compensated their lack of expertise. The courtiers kept to themselves, aided by Grey Worm glaring down any attempt at fraternizing, and the Wolf passed the time by interrogating the bloodriders at length on their supposed battle with a dragon in the forests of Winterfell.


	8. Chapter 5,6

Three days later, the Dragonqueen's entourage had made landfall on the eastern coast of Blackwater Bay, the Iron Fleet having made no appearance to the Wolf's visible disappointment and the relief of all others. Once Danaerys had found them, the diplomatic party had set out for one last parley. The Dothraki had been assigned to guard the ship along with its crew, while the Wolf accompanied the court under the pretext of having been hired to ensure Tyrion's security. Danaerys, more concerned about the upcoming meeting, said nothing about the barbarian's presence.

On the battlements of King's Landing stood Cersei, flanked by Euron and Ser Gregor. The Mountain's silhouette being easily distinguishable on the approach to the city, Tyrion stopped, cursing himself for an idiot for not having foreseen the difficulty in reuniting a murderer and his victim.

"Ser Wolf, wait. You'll have to stay out of sight."

The Wolf looked down.

"You want me to protect you from your sister while on the island, and shake off that protection when you're going to speak with her? You're a braver man than I expected."

Tyrion was momentarily struck dumb by what appeared to be a sincere compliment.

"Look, the Mountain's there, we can't have him recognize you, just... stay in hiding."

The Wolf peered out to the walls.

"You sure? That one looks like he still has a head on him."

Tyrion looked in disbelief, but the Wolf shrugged.

"Very well. Although if you get yourself killed, I'll charge your kin for what you owe me."

The Wolf peeled off from the crowd, and headed for a small knoll that masked him from the view of the city walls. Tyrion hurried over to Grey Worm, exchanging a few words with him.

Finally the diplomats stopped.

The Hands of both queens stepped forward and exchanged the wills of their respective queens. Then Tyrion pushed Qyburn aside, determined to give his sister one last chance at surrender. Grey Worm followed him, shooting the disgraced Maester a look of pure contempt.

At the foot of the walls, Tyrion tried every argument he could think of, not bothering with the idea of alleviating the people's suffering, but the sake of Cersei's unborn child. This one had hit home, he could see it, but still she refused to see sense. Tyrion shook his head in despair. How could she be so blind? How could she be so sure of her victory in spite of the odds?

An uncomfortable thought came in his head that he knew someone equally certain of her rightful victory regardless of finances or men, even if she did have a dragon. As much to clear the treacherous idea away as out of genuine concern, he looked up again.

"What did you do with Missandei?"

Cersei looked down, but kept silent for a few moments.

"Oh... her."

Tyrion waited. Why was Cersei hesitating?

"Ser Gregor isn't done with her yet."

Tyrion had to grab the wall to avoid falling over, while Grey Worm's hand squeezed his sword's hilt until it hurt.

The Lioness looked at the Dragonqueen, gazes locked on each other, contempt meeting hatred. Cersei opened her mouth to speak, preparing a carefully-rehearsed insult that would show the Dragon-bitch her place.

**"SHOW US YER TITS!"**

The queen started as though bitten by a snake, Danaerys' eyes opened wide, Tyrion closed his own with a grimace of defeat. The thunderous obscenity seemed to come from nowhere, although Danaerys' court recognized the voice all too well.

**"What, only the Seveners get a free show? Let's see the goods, slut-queen!"**

**"You'll be thrown to the soldiers soon enough, it makes things simpler for everyone if every man, dog and horse can pick which hole he'll fill ahead of time!"**

Cersei's expression was murderous. Behind her, Euron was snickering audibly. Still the voice pursued relentlessly.

**"Or maybe you forgot to wear your cunt-wig? Come off it, you balding old whore, it'll be cold but I'm sure we'll find something we can do to warm you up! We'll even let a cousin or three watch if that's the only way for you to get off!"**

Cersei screeched at the closest soldier, who ran down the steps. The taunting voice fell silent, as if waiting to see her reaction.

A dozen captives, their clothes unchanged since their capture from the massacre at Dragonstone harbor, their heads covered in sackcloths, were prodded up the battlements by the spears of the Kingsguard.

Still trembling with rage, Cersei nodded. The Mountain extended an arm and wrapped his hand around the first prisoner's head, turning like a harbor crane to dangle the man over empty air. The sackcloth did little to muffle his screaming or the snapping of bone as the Mountain's hand closed into a fist, gore squeezing through the sack and between his fingers.

Before the headless corpse had dropped to the ground below, the Mountain had grabbed another prisoner, bursting her skull between his palms. Another limp body dropped, barely missing Tyrion as he and Grey Worm scurried back to the Dragonqueen's side.

Danaerys stared in silence. The first man's screams had set off the other unfortunates, and each interrupted cry of "Please!", "Save me!", or "Mhysa!" was another icy dagger stabbing her heart.

The Mountain continued his grisly work, executing each prisoner in a different manner, strangling, crushing, ripping and tearing. Finally he finished, removing his sword from the belly of an Unsullied, wiping it clean on the eunuch's clothes before pushing the body off the rampart.

Cersei's expression was of absolute triumph. Without a word, Danaerys turned on her heel, her bodyguard and courtiers following. Cersei had sealed her city's fate.

As the diplomats returned past the knoll, the Wolf got up, looking particularly pleased with himself. Danaerys went straight to him.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't have you incinerated for treason right now."

"I can think of several, but the biggest one would be that I have committed no act of treason."

"You-"

The sheer insolence of it left her stunned.

"Other reasons involve the safety of your court here, who would have difficulty in returning to Dragonstone without me to helm my ship, and the absence of your dragon, without which you'd have difficulty incinerating a pile of dry straw."

Danaerys had recovered her breath, ignoring the last jibe.

"And sabotaging a diplomatic meeting isn't enough? Do you take gold from both sides?"

The Wolf's eyes narrowed. Grey Worm drew his blade, ready to strike at a single word from his queen.

"There's one or two people who've called me traitor before. They were very sorry to have made baseless accusations by the time I was through with them. As for sabotaging it... You can't tell me you truly expected her to back down, open the gates, and hand you the keys to the throne room?"

"She had those prisoners murdered because of you!"

"They were dead anyway. There's a siege on, better they died fast today than of starvation in two months or to make you hesitate to attack, assuming they wouldn't have ended up as food either. The whore-queen strikes me as being more interested in being obeyed than being competent."

Danaerys fell silent. Part of her- the same part of her that had cried out on hearing the pathetic screams of her people wanted the Wolf's head disappearing down Drogon's gullet. But the other part of her, the part that knew it was her destiny and her birthright to sit on the Iron Throne, heard the Wolf's words and saw only sense in them.

"Let's go. The sooner we're back at Dragonstone the better."

Not one of the courtiers thought it wise to argue, and even the Wolf made no comment as he returned to his position next to Tyrion. Half a day's march saw the envoys return to the secluded cove where the Seafang had been concealed. The Dragonqueen took off, the Seafang pushing off and following without seeing a single Ironborn ship for a day. Tyrion nearly relaxed as the danger seemed past.

* * *

Two days later, the Seafang skirted the southern coast of the island of Driftmark, rowers having relayed themselves through the night in their effort to return to Dragonstone swiftly, when the lookout gave an alarmed shout, pointing towards the horizon. A short while later, the Wolf was at the prow, looking out to the east. Tyrion soon made his way past the rowers.

"What is it?"

"Ulfnarr says there's an Ironborn ship off the island's coast. Big one, too."

Tyrion cursed.

"They cut us off? Can't we outrun them?"

"If they left harbor as soon as we left the walls, another half-day to get back to the Seafang... They probably could have done it. As for outrunning them..."

The Wolf seemed to think hard, looking back towards the west as he did, and pulling out a seachart showing the coasts of Blackwater Bay.

"If I was to prevent a ship from escaping this bay, and had a lead on them, and had an entire fleet to do so, I'd string the ships out on either side of the island so any two ships can intercept the prize, while signalling the others to close in. They wouldn't be worried about being caught from behind, given the state they left your fleet in."

Tyrion cursed again.

"Then how do we get past them? They didn't see which ship we took to get to King's Landing, did they?"

"Probably not, but if they have enough ships for it, which they likely do, they're going to be searching every westward-bound ship that goes through them."

Tyrion's fist clenched on his dagger.

"Then there's nothing to do but fight our way through."

"On the contrary."

Tyrion looked up. The Wolf called out orders to his crew and the ship's course turned towards the island.

"I'll drop you all ashore and then go to the one Ulfnarr spotted. They'll probably board and search the ship for you, and once they don't find anyone, either let us go, or try to sink us for the gold we carry. When that happens..."

The Wolf grinned savagely. Tyrion did not need to ask what would happen then.

"And then we'll come back to pick you up."

"And if you don't?"

The Wolf looked at Tyrion, as if affronted at the perceived insult to his crew's fighting ability.

"It's not that big an island, and it seems there's a port. If we're not back by morning you can send word to the Dragonqueen from there."

Tyrion explained the Wolf's plan to the other passengers, who reluctantly agreed that possible capture on land was a better option than to face battle on the seas. The Seafang sailed as close to the beach as it could, allowing the courtiers to walk ashore, Tyrion being carried by one of the Dothraki. They watched the longship head back out to sea, then made themselves as comfortable as they could to wait, the Dragonqueen's bodyguards spreading out to watch the perimeter.

* * *

Off the eastern tip of Driftmark, at the very entrance of Blackwater Bay, the Silence waited. Euron stood at its prow, scanning the horizon when he saw the colossal longship rapidly approaching. The ships were rapidly side by side, the Wolf leaping over the row of shields to land heavily on the Silence's deck.

"Bring him up, it's time."

"Yes, yarrl."

Dishevelled and in chains, Euron Greyjoy was dragged from the Silence's hold, followed by the androgyne and two of the mutes, whose guard duties had evidently been the envy of the entire crew. The former captain of the Iron Fleet's flagship stared at his double, who grinned back in turn.

"Wha- what happened? What'd he do wi-"

"Nothing that will besmirch your good name, rust-born, don't worry."

"Who is- How did-"

"Are your wits as slow as your arms? This is Euron Greyjoy. One-time king of the Iron Islands, one-time holder of the Salt Throne before he was booted off by his niece, admiral of the Iron Fleet, currently allied with the lady of... what's the place called again? Castrated Rock?"

"Casterly Rock."

Euron started. The other had responded in his own voice.

"Right, Casterly Rock. Said lady, who is currently holding on to the Iron Throne as best she can, last saw her ally and lover, one Euron Greyjoy, has sallied out to devastate what was left of the Dragonqueen's fleet after sinking the ship that carried her closest advisers. A shame he won't return anytime soon, she must be sick with worry, and who knows, maybe even grief."

Something in the Wolf's dismissive tone pushed Euron to respond, to say anything to contradict him.

"My line will live!"

"Your line?"

"The child of the lion and the kraken!"

The Wolf looked nonplussed.

"I'll admit I've spent more time killing lions than watch them rutting, but it seems to me you'd have better luck getting something from a lion and a lion. Of course, there is evidence that a woman and a mange-eaten dog can produce offspring, I'm looking at him right now."

"I think he means the Lannister queen, yarrl. And if she didn't have one in her before, well, she certainly does now, thank slonish!"

The true Euron looked at his sniggering double. He had often had cause to see his own face in mirrors, but never before the urge to punch himself to wipe the smug expression off his own face.

Before Euron could react, the Wolf had cut in, sarcastically faking an expression of dawning comprehension.

"Oh, you were being metaphorical! Of course."

The Wolf laughed.

"The Lannister queen. Quite the explorer you are, rust-born, to boldly go where so many have gone before. And from what I hear, she prefers the company of her brother to any man. Whatever you shot into her- hopefully in the right hole, I've seen how well you aim- will have quite a few rivals to deal with before coming back out in a few months."

"But I have plans for her, don't you fret. In fact, if she gives birth, I will personally inform your ghost of the little whelp's hair color. Or at least, yell it near the place your corpse was last seen."

Without waiting for Euron to process the threat, the Wolf turned to the androgyne.

"Dispel it."

The dancer made complicated motions with its hands, and the healthy Euron seemed to swell up and grow, his face changing back into one the true Euron knew all too well.

"Thanks to Akkarulf here acting in your name, the Lannister queen will have her elephants for the coming battle."

Euron's eyes went back and forth, but he recovered.

"And now I suppose you're going to kill me? Some fighter _you_ are, to kill a man who's chained up. I called you a coward before, and it wasn't strong enough!"

The Wolf sighed, as if in regret.

"Unfortunately, the time for taunting and fighting is over. You had your chance to defeat me, and failed. A shame your god did not see fit to help you, but you can complain about that once you meet him."

Euron looked defiantly at the Wolf, who pulled him up by his chains and held him before the Seafang's prow. Akkarulf tied him securely to the figurehead, below the dragon's head, which snarled and attempted to snap at him. The Wolf gave the wood a sharp slap before returning amidships to yell out orders. Behind the longship, the Silence's prow was roped to the Seafang's stern.

Euron was left with Akkarulf, who was tightening his captive's bonds.

"You vicious little _whoreson_. You're siding with this heap of filth now? Haven't stabbed enough backs in your lifetime?"

Akkarulf took the insult in stride.

"Given what he's done for me, I'd be very ungrateful, and very stupid, not to do so, Euron. And I'll be the first to admit I was a fool before, for most of my life even, blind and desperate to please. But now I'm finally on the winning side."

The Wolf yelled, and the marauders went to their oars. Akkarulf gave the chained Ironborn a friendly pat on the cheek, and took up position at the mast, stringing a longbow and nocking an arrow.

Unable to see behind him, Euron shook and raged as the air split open before the ship. As they entered a swirling fog, he struggled still, fighting off the wave of nausea that struck him, but soon stopped as he stared in horror at the sights within.

Things whispered in his ears, threatening, jeering and cajoling, he even thought he heard the mocking laughter of his brothers calling to him. A tendril of fog caressed his cheek, and the face it was attached to turned into a young maiden's before an arrow struck through it. The thing screamed, became a grinning skull and faded away, replaced by what looked like a dog with the horns of a ram and the teeth of a shark. Another arrow dispersed it as its jaws were about to close on Euron's throat.

"You're welcome, Euron!"

An eternity passed for Euron as the longship sailed the phantom realm, each new nightmare more horrid than the last, deliberately dispelled at the very last second by Akkarulf's arrows. The thought of the unseen deathblow kept the Ironborn's eyelids forced open.

His clothes soaked with sweat, tears and worse, Euron was only aware of the ship returning to the world by the smell of brine and the sudden splash of seawater in his mouth. Still trembling, he managed to twist himself around despite the chains biting into his skin, seeing the mass of the Silence behind the longship.

Behind him, the Wolf's mocking tone rang out, the ropes binding Euron to the ship snapping loose. Grabbing him by the hair, the Wolf lifted Euron in one hand, dangling him over the water.

"Ahhhh, nothing like the sea air to warm a man's heart. Tastes finer than wine, smells better than flowers."

There was an exaggerated sniff.

"Or at least it usually does. Been a while since you had a bath, I take it."

"Know where we are, rust-born?"

Euron looked around him. The seas were a dark gray, the clouds the colour of iron, as were the islands in swimming distance of the ships. As the ship rowed closer, he started as he recognized the beach where the Drowned Men held their ceremonies.

"Here you were made king... and here you will die. Powerless, broken, alone... A fitting end to so inept a sailor, so weak a warrior, and so gutless a raider."

Euron squirmed, but there was no escaping the chains binding his arms. The Wolf dropped him on the deck.

"Believe me, I wish I could keep you alive long enough to show you how much I appreciate the hard work you've done in King's Landing, my triumph and those of my gods wouldn't be nearly as complete without the efforts you put into it. But I have spent long enough refusing their will, and paid too high a price to do so again."

"The Drowned God rules here!"

"The Drowned God."

There was a world of contempt in the Wolf's voice as he spat in Euron's face.

"There's more power of the gods in my spit than your puny god has in all this world's oceans."

"Or do you still hope he will save you? Do you think the half-dozen priests you murdered in your life grant you greater favor with him than I have with my gods, in whose name I have sacrificed thousands, over more lifetimes than you've had days, I who have brought them the skulls, the hearts, the very _souls_ of men and daemons, of Chosen and of snakefolk, of beasts and beastkin, of dragons and kings?"

Euron saw from the Wolf's face that this was no idle boast, even if he had no idea what the giant was talking about.

"What the fuck _are_ you?"

"I am the Wolf, the High Executioner of Chaos. I will open the path to bring the true gods into this world, and it shall belong to them forever and always. _You_ are the closest thing to a pale shadow of myself that your weakling gods saw fit to create, and see what heroic resistance you opposed me."

"In fact, let us put it to the test, here and now."

The Wolf stood at the prow of the Seafang, drawing in a deep breath, as a tidal wave before the crash.

"**DROWNED GOD!** Hear me and tremble, you sad puddle of abyss-mud! I, Wulfrik World-Walker, defy you, here on the sea, in the heart of your domain, and you are as powerless as your mewling servant! You call yourself the god of the sea, I say you are not fit to call yourself the god of a chamberpot! Your waters are worthy only to house muck-feeders and whalebones, a thousand elephants could shit in them for a century and only improve the taste of its fish!"

"Prove yourself, god of trickles and outhouses, send the biggest wave you can piss! Here stands a man unafraid of you or the biggest minnow you call sharks, a man who has braved the mightiest tempests of Mermedus, who has sailed the seas of the Warp without fear, a man before whom daemons quake, who serves and obeys the true gods! End me here and now, before I knock down the sandcastles you call temples, your priests left to die of thirst, your murkiest depths plumbed and explored like a dockside whore's!"

Nothing but the sound of the waves was heard after the Wolf's tirade ended. He turned to Euron.

"Would you perhaps like to try? Go on, looter of brothels and taverns, defy the gods of the Norsca, the true masters of the world, and of all worlds. They are far away, and yet they have but to reach out to take your worthless life from you."

Euron had recovered, and was able to put on a sneer as he responded in kind.

"Defy them? I don't see what there is to defy."

"I see only a delusional madman, an oversized idiot who thinks he has won a battle with a god by shouting at the air, and whose satisfaction increases tenfold when nothing happens! I _spit_ on your gods, you rat-fucking _cunt_!"

Euron panted, but the Wolf merely smiled.

"Good! Your last words were of defiance and bravery. A shame you couldn't muster up the same fury in life, of course, but I'll take what I can get. Which is also why I'm a better pirate than you ever were."

"And now I realize I have kept you from your god for far too long."

Hoisting Euron in one hand, grabbing a rope in the other, the Wolf stepped over the gunwale and let himself slide down the prow of the Silence until he was standing on the submerged ram. He threw Euron a short distance into the air, just enough to catch him by the ankle, rotating his wrist so his victim hung upside down.

"Now, will you make it fast, like a coward, or will you make it last, like a fool?"

The Wolf lowered his arm, dunking Euron's head underwater.

As he shook and kicked, Euron realized he had not been dropped, still feeling the Wolf's iron grip on his leg, and only his head was under the waves. Continuing to thrash a moment more, he fell still, drooping limply, waiting for the Wolf to pull him up, and then play the corpse until the lunatic's interest faded.

"A fool, then. Are you not anxious to meet your god? You weren't much of a fighter in life, you could at least try to make a good messenger boy in death."

The Wolf's mocking voice entered Euron's mind as if they were both on dry land. Now spots were beginning to appear in front of his vision, his lungs screaming.

"I'm not in any hurry, you know. It's a fine day for sailing."

Now Euron thrashed and wriggled in earnest, his head smashing repeatedly against the Silence's ram, his nose broken and bleeding, and through it all the Wolf's sarcasm dripping like venom.

"Now, now, take better care of your skull, you wouldn't want me to present a damaged sacrifice, would you?"

Euron's struggles only intensified, but there was no escape.

"The ingratitude of some people. I learn that your kind do not fear drowning but do fear storms, I take the time and effort to give you the death any _true_ Ironborn would gladly take instead of nailing you to the top of the mast and sailing through tempests until lightning strikes, and this is how I'm thanked."

Euron could no longer fight the impulse to breathe in, eclipsing even his hate for the barbarian.

"You want to what?"

Euron struggled to make sense of the words despite the burning of his chest. The Wolf was now speaking like a man annoyed by a minor interruption rather than a smug tormentor relishing in his power over his helpless captive.

"And why would I let you do so?"

There was a pause.

Euron suddenly felt himself pulled up, coughing and sucking in air greedily. Behind the Wolf stood Akkarulf, an expression of sinister joy on a face Euron had always seen cringing and fearful.

"Right, rust-born. Akkarulf here says he wants your manhood for himself, for reasons I'd rather not dwell on. Since he's shown himself more obedient than some of my own crew and skilled enough to carry out what I ask of him, I'm inclined to let him."

"Unless you can you think of a good reason why I shouldn't."

Euron blinked repeatedly, his mouth agape.

"Will your god mind if you present yourself before him missing a tentacle?"

Euron could now only shake, repeating "No!" in a panicked voice. Akkarulf advanced, his eyes blazing. The Wolf held up his free hand.

"And what do you intend to do with it? You're not nailing it to the mast or keeping it for luck, I hope."

"No, S- yarrl. I'm going to throw it in the sea, as far away as possible, on the other side of the world if I can, and may his ghost be forever looking for it in the bellies of crabs!"

Drawing a short knife, Akkarulf ripped open Euron's trousers, and before the Ironborn could make any sense of what was happening, was brutally hacking and sawing away.

Euron's screams ended suddenly as the Wolf plunged him underwater, holding him as securely as if his ankle had been nailed to the ship. Still he struggled like a worm on a hook, even managing to free his arms of the chain, but it was too late.

Even as he felt the darkness entering his mind, the fire in his chest spreading, the unspeakable pain pulsing through his groin, fear in every fiber of his being, the very last thoughts in his head were the mocking words of the Wolf.

"When you see your... "god". Tell him that though he may hide in the deepest crevices he can find, he will not escape the Ruinous Powers."

The last few bubbles broke the surface, watched carefully by the Wolf, who whispered something no one could hear.

Pulling the corpse back up, he dropped it spread-eagle on the bow, pulling out a knife and stabbing deeply into Euron's guts, his hand moving up through the rib cage and pulling out Euron's still-throbbing heart, then stabbing through the throat and spine to rip off his head.

"Right! That's done with."

"Akkarulf, get to the coast, round up however many you need to properly crew this tub, get them ready to board in a week."

"But yarrl, it'll take us at least two weeks to reach King's-"

The Wolf looked at Akkarulf, his expression studiously neutral.

"Oh. Yes, yarrl!"

Akkarulf turned and hauled himself onto the Silence's deck, yelling out orders to the crew.

"Drop the rowboat! Harr, Odon, Seron and Olv, with me!"

The Wolf's voice came from the prow. There was no trace of menace in his voice, and yet it was clearly audible to the Ironborn.

"Be back before sunset. You _don't_ want to keep me waiting."

As the rowboat headed for shore, rowed by the skilled mutes of the Silence, Akkarulf turned to see his captain remove the limbs from Euron's corpse and toss them onto the deck before disdainfully kicking the maimed body in the water.

* * *

Night had fallen before the stranded courtiers saw the Seafang's lights approaching the shore. As they were brought onboard, they saw that the ship had clearly been the site of a fierce battle: blood had spattered everywhere on the ship, with several severed limbs lying fore and aft before being tossed overboard.

Tyrion went to the Wolf as the ship turned eastward, trying to avoid stepping in the puddles of gore, keeping his voice as neutral as he could.

"I take it the encounter went to your satisfaction, Ser Wolf?"

"Completely. Very reasonable people, these Iron Islanders. Had it been one of the Norsca, I'd have had to slaughter all but one of them to reach any kind of arrangement."

The lights sprang up on another ship an arrow's flight away, as it sailed southeast. Tyrion started.

"That's the Silence!"

"What is?"

"Euron's flagship! You- you negotiated with _him?_"

"Is that what his name was? I just found the one who yelled the most and... explained the difficulty of his situation."

The Wolf seemed thoughtful.

"Now that you mention it, he was the _only_ one to speak words during the battle. A well-named ship, this Silence."

Tyrion returned to what he felt was the important subject. Looking at the retreating ship, he could make out a figure at its stern, giving them a mocking salute.

"_What_ difficulty?"

"Well, he'd lost a quarter of his crew by the time I got to him. I showed him how difficult it would be for his crew to sail a ship with only half their number breathing and a captain with only half a leg and no hands."

Grey Worm, seeing Tyrion's agitation, had approached, his face wearing its usual scowl.

"The Queen did not tell you to do this!"

The Wolf turned his head.

"No, but she did tell me to bring you all back without exposing you to danger. That part I think you'll agree went perfectly well."

Tyrion spoke up, managing to keep the dread out of his voice.

"And what did you negotiate with him?"

The Wolf smiled.

"I'll tell you and your queen once we reach the island in the morning. It'll save me from telling it twice."

The Wolf turned back to the prow, leaving Grey Worm to give Tyrion a questioning look, his hand on his sword, and Tyrion to respond with a shake of his head. Close as they were to Dragonstone, they were still at sea, and the rest of the crew might not take kindly to the death of their captain.

He had to hope the dawn would bring less dramatic events, and that the Wolf's initiatives would not cause Danaerys to embrace the execution-happy tyrant she was getting dangerously close to becoming.


	9. Chapter 6,1

In his room in Dragonstone, Varys scratched away at a parchment before looking at the dribbling candle. Once again, he'd worked until well past midnight. With a sigh, he put down his quill. Another day gone by with no news of the envoys, Danaerys having shut herself up in the Painted Chamber ever since her return two days prior, with only the sound of breaking furniture proving she was still alive, but even these had stopped eventually.

Obviously the meeting had gone disastrously wrong, but surely Cersei had not captured them all, or she would have sent a gloating messenger. The Iron Fleet controlled the bay, and in spite of the Wolf's assurances, it was possible they had overtaken the mercenary's longship.

Varys sighed again and extinguished the candle before heading for his bed. It was useless to torture his brain without more information, but if the Queen remained isolated, the question of who was in charge would arise.

As he was about to disrobe, a small child slipped into his chamber.

"It's Tyrion and the others! The dragon-ship's in the harbor!"

Thoughts of sleep gone, Varys outpaced his young spy as he rushed down to Dragonstone's harbor. The passengers had mostly disembarked, with Tyrion and Grey Worm looking impatiently at the ship, whose captain was walking up and down the deck, yelling at his crew. Finally the Wolf completed his inspection and descended, joining them just as Varys caught up to Tyrion.

"Well?"

"We need to see the Queen."

"I don't know if she'll see anyone. She's been alone in the Painted Chamber ever since her return."

"She's still not over those men the slut-queen killed? Get her someone to rut her brains out, that'll take her mind off it. We can wait until she's in a better mood to deliver the news."

The Wolf spoke with his usual unconcerned manner. Varys looked at him in disbelief before shifting his gaze to Tyrion and Grey Worm. Both shook their heads, though Tyrion looked reluctant and Grey Worm furious. Varys nodded in turn.

"Follow me."

A pair of Dothraki guarded the entrance into the fortress.

"We must see the queen. It's urgent."

The guards opened the door, but as the Wolf made to follow the other three inside, the Dothraki stepped in front of him.

"You cannot go armed before the Khaleesi!"

The Wolf looked at the bloodrider and blinked.

"Ah. Of course. What _am_ I thinking."

The Wolf drew his sword, weighed it in his hand and suddenly rammed it through the wooden door, staring at the luckless guard all the while. Then he pulled out another blade and shoved it through the door again, until he was bereft of visible weapons other than his hands and the spikes on his armor, the door splintered through by the gigantic weapons.

"If you're going to try pulling them out, put gloves on. They're delicate little things and I don't want fingerprints all over them."

The Wolf swept past the Dothraki, delivering his parting shot in a conversational tone.

"Commendable zeal these horse-lovers show in guarding their queen. All the stranger that they should show themselves such cowards on the battlefield."

As the envoys walked down the corridor to the great war-room of Dragonstone, they came to another, larger door, before which stood a Dothraki and an Unsullied in full armor. A platter loaded with food and drink was placed against the wall next to them.

"Has she come out? Or said anything? Has she even taken food?"

"No, Lord Varys."

Tyrion took a deep breath, stepped up and tapped at the door. There was no sound from within. He knocked again, slightly louder. Still there was no response.

"Your Grace? My queen?"

"Danaerys?"

"... Dany?"

Silence was the only answer.

"So? Do we go in?"

Varys shook his head.

"Wait a bit. There are some things I'd like to know first."

Tyrion opened his mouth, then looked at the Wolf. Varys caught his meaning, and both men quickly stepped away, leaving the Wolf and a distinctly unhappy-looking Grey Worm to wait, both looking the way they'd come.

The Wolf broke the silence first.

"So. 'Grey Worm'."

Grey Worm pressed his lips together, but did not respond. The Wolf continued regardless, not turning his head but speaking as though thinking aloud.

"Your skin's grey the same way my hair is pink, and unless it means "fighter" among your people you're one of the least wormlike men I've seen. An ill-fitting name on both counts. Why do you keep it?"

Grey Worm remained silent, which did nothing to stop the Wolf.

"Now 'Grey', maybe, it's not always about skin color. I knew a Grimbroen Greyhair and a Hjoldar Greyblade, Kalev Greymeat would eat fermented shark even the scavengers wouldn't touch, I once gutted an Aesling seer named Morgedal Greyeyes when he tried to cast a spell of unending sleep on me, then there was Hsevvek the Grey, so called because he never washed, the filthy old pervert. And of course, that little bitch Greyjoy."

Still Grey Worm managed to stay silent, though there was a grinding noise from his teeth.

"But 'Worm', now... That's a name parents would only give to a particularly hated child. If you were born of cuckoldry, or rape, or killed your mother by coming into the world. A name only the ratkin would take on, unimaginative as they are."

"No, unless the gods played a particularly cruel trick on you and 'grey worm' is an apt description of your co-"

"It is the name I chose for myself."

The Wolf seemed taken aback.

"Really."

Now he turned to look at Grey Worm, who continued to glare down the corridor.

"Any particular reason? Is it to stab your foes while they're laughing at you?"

Grey Worm's hand tightened on his sword.

"It is the name I had been given on the day I was freed by my queen. I carry it to remind myself of that day."

"Ahhh. A good omen, then."

Now it was Grey Worm's turn to look at the Wolf, this time in disbelief.

"Long ago, I too was freed of my previous petty obligations, which I had foolishly held so dear. Although I kept the same name, my old self was dead, but I was what the gods had ever intended me to be, though I was too blind to see it before."

A slight noise interrupted, and the Wolf turned around. Tyrion and Varys had returned to the door and were knocking again, to no avail.

"Allow me."

Tyrion hastily jumped back as the Wolf raised his fist. Instantly an arakh and spear were pointed at his throat, Grey Worm's blade only fractionally later.

"You will NOT intrude on the Queen, barbarian!"

"No, I won't."

The Wolf grabbed the tip of both weapons in his free hand, Grey Worm's sword clinking against the back of his armor.

"I'll just make sure she knows there's people here to see her, and without any of you to take the blame."

The Wolf brought his clenched fist against the wooden door with all the slow, ponderous grace of a church bell tolling the death of a king. The boom reverberated throughout the corridor, masking the splintering of wood as the hinges threatened to tear themselves apart. The echoes of the first blow had not yet faded away that he struck again. Heads appeared from doorways further down the corridor, one querulous voice demanding that the halfwit using a battering ram at this ungodly hour be put to death. Finally the key was heard to turn in the lock.

The door opened. Danaerys' sleep-deprived glare would have petrified most men, but the Wolf continued in a voice so jovial and hearty as to excuse murder before a judge.

"Good morning, Dragonqueen! Not interrupting, are we?"

Danaerys' mouth opened, but the Wolf interjected before she could order his immediate decapitation.

"I brought your men back safe and sound, as agreed. I've also arranged for the Iron Fleet to bugger off for a while, which Tyrion here believes should have required your permission, we're here to make sure it meets your approval."

Danaerys stared at the Wolf, then at Tyrion, Grey Worm, and Varys. Those who'd been on the ship grudgingly nodded.

"Come in."

Danaerys turned around, thankfully unable to see the Wolf's face radiating smugness. The war-room seemed to have been ransacked by Iron Islanders, wall hangings torn down and furniture overturned. When Tyrion, Grey Worm, Varys and the Wolf had entered and the guards had closed the door, Danaerys sat in the one chair that she had not reduced to splinters. The four men stood before her, accidentally placing themselves in order of height.

"So. You chased off the Iron Fleet, in a single ship, half-full of diplomats."

Danaerys' sarcasm would have had any courtier sweating, but the Wolf did not notice, or more likely did not care.

"Not quite. Ran into some weakling in a horned helmet. I'm told he's called Euron Greyjoy, only one with a tongue aboard his ship in any case, and informed him that while he was busy plowing the whore-queen instead of the waves, his throne is currently held by his niece."

Tyrion frowned. Something didn't quite add up, but the Wolf moved on before he could pin it down.

"It seems that his arse prefers to sit on salt than iron, so the Iron Fleet'll be out of the Blackwater and sailing south by midday, leaving the bay clear for a good two weeks."

The giant's tone was oddly contemptuous, as though Euron's flight was a personal offense. Danaerys had other concerns.

"Instead of killing him on the spot, which still leaves the Iron Fleet to threaten me, and Yara in the Iron Islands, and any ships unlucky enough to cross its path."

The Wolf shrugged.

"True, but it's a long way around. And there are ever so many dangers at sea. There's storms, reefs, mutinies, sea serpents, dragon attacks..."

The Wolf's sentence hung in the air. Danaerys almost rolled her eyes. Clearly the barbarian's mouth acted before whatever brains he had did, but he at least seemed incapable of treason against her. Executing Euron, and avenging Rhaegal, would just have to wait. She took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

"So be it."

The Wolf nodded, and as was becoming a habit, headed for the door without waiting for dismissal. Tyrion idly wondered if such cavalier disregard for social niceties was a calculated act of defiance, warning against any attempt to command him, or if protests from smaller people simply didn't register with the barbarian. Danaerys' next words interrupted his musings.

"Varys, send a message to Yara. Warn her that Euron is taking his fleet home."

Varys nodded.

"And to Dorne, the Arbor, and the cities along the coasts of Westeros and Essos. Euron might get a little raiding done along the way, and what remains of the fleet is still dangerous to the unwary."

Danaerys turned her eyes from Varys to Tyrion.

"Tyrion. I took your advice, and gave your sister one last chance to surrender. This is the result."

Tyrion bowed his head, and kept it bowed.

"There are two kinds of people who fail me : traitors and fools. I'm willing to believe you were a fool, but I have no use for advisors with bad advice."

"Do not fail me again."

"No, my queen."

Varys stole a glance at Tyrion. He judged the moment right to deflect attention from his friend, unfortunately choosing the worst possible way to do it.

"Did you find out if Missandei was among the captives?"

The combined reactions of Tyrion, Grey Worm and Danaerys told him all he needed to know. Still Danaerys looked accusingly at Tyrion.

"I didn't have time to tell him!"

Tyrion took a deep breath.

"Cersei... Cersei had her murdered by the Mountain. Or will, she said he wasn't done yet. But by now, it's hopefully over."

Varys winced in horror. The loss of Missandei alone would account for their queen's erratic behavior. Even if Missandei had survived the Mountain's attentions, even if Cersei didn't have her killed out of spite like the other hostages, even if the siege concluded fast enough to find and rescue her, there was no guarantee, or even hope, that she would emerge anything but a shadow of her former self, if indeed she would even be in a state to recognize her friends.

Danaerys broke in, unwilling to reflect on the fate her handmaiden was undergoing.

"Go and tell the quartermasters to prepare as many supplies as they can to be brought to the mainland. We have a siege to lay, an usurper to overthrow, and a city to burn if they are still mad enough to think they can resist."

Understanding they were dismissed, Tyrion and Varys exited, Grey Worm following them.

"And send me food. I feel like I could eat a horse."

Outside the door, Grey Worm picked up the untouched platter and brought it to his queen.

Varys and Tyrion hurriedly left. On the way they passed the Wolf, who was removing his swords from the ruined door, making snide comments to the Dothraki guard who had attempted and failed to pull one out by himself.

When Varys returned to his chambers, his mind was made up. He would wait for Jon's return, and then act for the sake of the Seven Kingdom, as he always had. He did not see the look Tyrion gave him as he climbed the stairs to his chambers.

* * *

Beric Dondarrion winced as he stepped off the gangplank and into Volantis. His wounds had scabbed over, but now and then there was still an unpleasant twinge in his ankle where the wight had stabbed it. Ignoring the throngs of street sellers, prostitutes and pickpockets, he stepped resolutely towards the great temple of the Red God.


	10. Chapter 6,2

Jon Snow arrived at Dragonstone the next day, bringing with him the most essential members of his retinue to coordinate the march towards King's Landing. Last off the ship came a disheveled and chained Jaime Lannister, caught before he could escape Winterfell and join his sister. The dirty looks he shot Brienne of Tarth left no doubt as to who was responsible for his capture. Whenever she did not stand watch over him, her squire Podrick took over, clearly uncertain as to what he would do if Jaime somehow escaped.

Tyrion stood before his queen, answering her summons.

"Tyrion, your brother has joined us once more. As a prisoner this time, attempting to rejoin your sister."

"Yes, so I heard. I hope you put him under lock and key?"

Danerys looked surprised.

"You aren't asking me to free him?"

Tyrion shook his head.

"A guarded cell on this island is the safest place he could be right now. If you could keep him there until the city is taken, it would be for the best."

Tyrion was on his way to the cells when he saw Jon accosted by the Wolf. He was unfortunately also close enough to hear them, and although the Wolf did not speak particularly loudly for once, his meaning if not his words had a way of being understood at any distance.

"Hoi! You! You're the Dragonqueen's lover, aren't you?"

Jon's mouth twisted, but the Wolf plowed on as if he hadn't noticed it.

"Better get to bedding her quick, she's been all wound up ever since she came back from King's Landing. You don't fuck the frustration out of her soon, she'll start looking thoughtfully at horses or that big scaly son of hers. And when you start lying with kin and animals, there's no going back. Look what it got the Lannister bitch."

The Wolf gave Jon's shoulder a jocular shove as he walked off, as unconcerned as if he had merely informed Jon that his shirt was on backwards. Jon's expression was a mixture of hatred, bewilderment and fear as he stared at the Wolf's back. Then he saw Tyrion, who he was relieved to see wore a similar expression.

"You think he knows?"

Tyrion took some time to answer.

"I... don't think he does. He'd likely have been a lot less subtle about it if he did. Maybe he wouldn't even have worked for Danaerys."

"Why is he even here!?"

"He helped deal with Euron. Sent him away."

Jon looked at Tyrion.

"You're sure of this?"

Tyrion hesitated.

"I saw him sail towards the Silence, saw him come back, and saw the Iron Fleet sail away from Dragonstone. We've had ravens saying they've sailed south, but haven't attacked any towns. Yet."

Jon looked tired. The siege would be much easier if Cersei had only the remains of the royal fleet at her command, and he was certain Davos Seaworth would live up to his name on the waters. But leaving a Greyjoy unsupervised was not a decision to be taken lightly, and the Wolf's actions had forced them into an uncertain situation.

* * *

As preparations were made for the march and the skies filled with ravens delivering reports and messages, the Wolf did not remain inactive. The Dothraki that had been granted to him were drilled harsher than the rest, pitted in mock battles every day against his own men. The Seafang sailed out every morning while the Wolf's marauders scoured the beaches of Dragonstone, building up a vast collection of driftwood.

One day the longship returned from the mainland, towing a massive tree behind it. This was dragged onto the beach where the marauders set up an improvised smithy, melting down whatever scrap metal they could get their hands on into great iron rings.

Tyrion descended to the beach to inspect the ram's progress, passing the disgraced Dothraki charging against a group of marauders. Each had a strange emblem tattooed on his shoulder, a small circle inside a wavy crescent shape, the significance of which he thought to be a reference to their supposed feat in the forests of Winterfell.

None of the marauders spoke Westerosi, but those around the ram made sufficient reference to something called a "svinebyorn" for him to guess it was the name they had given it. He went up to the Wolf, who was lifting the ram up with both hands so the iron bands could fit around it, and waited until he had put the tree down.

"Ser Wolf, what exactly is a- svinebyorn? Some ferocious animal or great warrior, no doubt?"

"**HAH!**"

It took a while for the Wolf to stop laughing. At last he composed himself.

"Sveinbjorn, great warrior... Hoohoo..."

The Wolf wiped a forearm across his eyes.

"Indeed not. I call it that after someone I knew, for they share many of the same traits."

The Wolf smirked.

"Like Sveinbjorn, it is heavy, lacking in conversation, exists only to shove itself into places it's not wanted, is utterly brainless, and incapable of doing anything without a dozen men to carry its weight."

The Wolf shook his head.

"No, the only thing Sveinbjorn the... "man"... was ever a danger to was maidenheads, women's reputations, and his own allies if they were stupid enough to trust him to carry out a task with any degree of success. And immobile targets, of course, which this Sveinbjorn should excel against."

Tyrion waited a moment.

"And who was he?"

"Sveinbjorn Torgaldsson, crown prince of the Aeslings, who took the throne after his father died in battle. Or rather, after he and king Viglundr of the Sarls conspired for Torgald to meet his end at my blade. He wasn't worth even half his father, or else I'd show you his skull."

The Wolf drew a sword half out of its sheath.

"That's Torgald."

Tyrion looked with some queasiness. The Wolf's sword had a skull for a pommel, yellowed with age. The empty sockets seemed to leer mockingly out at the world.

"I take it you... killed him too?"

"I did. Sveinbjorn Snake-belly, we called him afterwards."

"But you didn't keep his skull?"

"Certainly not. In his case it was because his head was needed as a parting gift to his comrade in treachery, but I only keep trophies of _worthy_ foes, and of those the gods demand I take... and you'd be surprised by how often those are different categories."

Tyrion looked the Wolf up and down.

"You are often called upon to kill unworthy foes by your gods?"

"Incompetents who bought their position or were born into it, weaklings who'd never held a sword, or cowards who otherwise bring no glory to defeat and only shame to be defeated by. That Fingers man was one, there was another..."

The Wolf frowned.

"What _was_ his name again? It seems it wasn't his real one, or at least he claimed it wasn't, and yet I'm sure I heard it recently. Something like "Snotling", I think."

Searching for a better brand of conversation, Tyrion looked back at the ram, noting that the fires used to smelt the iron burned bright blue, the Wolf's sorcerer waving his staff over them.

"Some kind of magic?"

"No magic there, saltwood always burns blue. But Sven tells me it'll make the ram work better, along with the spells of ruin he's laying on it."

"How so?"

"That's the wood salvaged from the ships sunk by the Iron Fleet. If the spirits of the dead want vengeance, what better way than to be bound to the engine that will batter down the walls belonging to the bitch that ordered their deaths?"

Tyrion stared at the Wolf, who did not seem overly concerned with convincing Tyrion of the spell's success.

"And you trust in this... magic?"

The Wolf shrugged.

"Magic has a way of backfiring at the worst time on those who rely on it, and as easily as the wind changes. I do not deny its usefulness, but I'll take a blade of good steel over an enchanted sword any day."

"Wouldn't want people saying it was the magic that did the work instead of you?"

The Wolf grinned slowly.

"I can see I have little to hide from you, Tyrion Shield-slayer. Although truth be told, there is more of the apothecary than the sorcerer in him."

Tyrion looked at the sorcerer again. He certainly looked the part, wolf skins, animal parts and dangling pouches along with other unidentifiable totems and amulets strewn all over them.

"I once saw him cast an orange powder into a sword blank, after a reaver named Kromsiss had paid him to enchant it. Once the sword was forged, it looked no different than any other, and yet after Kromsiss' ship struck a reef and we managed to salvage it after the summer thaw, his was the only blade onboard not rusted through. Had Kromsiss lived, that sword would have lasted long enough to be inherited by his grandson's grandson."

The Wolf pulled out a different sword from its sheath.

"See? Not a speck of rust on it, and it's been near ten years. I saw him use that same powder to make a Druchii war-hag die in less than a year by forcing her to sniff up an entire bowl of the stuff. After she'd finally coughed herself to death, her lungs were as lumpy and shriveled as a coal miner's. He's better at poison and powders than spells, or so he tells me."

Tyrion winced, and decided he didn't need to know what a Druchii was. He looked further out on the beach. The Dothraki were still brawling with the Wolf's men, though a few of them seemed to be circling around so as to strike from behind.

"You train them for battle, even though they are to die?"

"You have a better idea for keeping horsemen busy on this rock? It's what I do with the Hung and Kurgans who join my crew."

Tyrion felt these were probably more outlandish tribes from beyond the Wall that he would have been unable to tell apart from each other.

"And the symbol?"

"The Flame of Mutation, it's called. It serves to remind them that their current lot in life comes from their claims of slaying a fire dragon, and must live up to it for them to hope that it changes for the better."

The Wolf swept his hand to encompass the view.

"To mark that their old selves are no more, they have a new name as well. In your tongue, it is something like "Deathbound", for that is their fate once we come to the city, as the Dragonqueen has decreed. They will die... but they might as well take as many of the bastards as they can before they do, and appear before their forebears with some of their honor restored."

Tyrion looked at the Deathbound, who had managed to bring down several of the marauders. He shuddered to think of what might become of Essos if the Deathbound survived the siege and spread word of their exploits and the Wolf's teachings to their own people.


	11. Chapter 6,3

Two days later, Varys sighed as he left the feast hall after dinner. Danaerys was still alive and well, and showed no signs of straying from her professed course of burning the city to obedient ash. He'd have to find a different poison, or increase the dosage, and quickly, while they were still on the island and Jon unable to escape being crowned.

He noted, with some distaste, that the Wolf's sorcerer was sitting next to the stairs leading to his bedchamber, his raven-topped staff across his knees.

"What are you doing here? Go on, get out!"

The sorcerer looked up and grinned, his cheek scars puckering and multiplying, before proffering a strong-smelling jug.

"Mjöðr, geldingr?"

Varys did not deign to reply, making his way up the stairs. A vague memory that the Wolf considered his acolyte a poisoner came to his shrewd mind, but he dismissed the idea. The man would immediately denounce him as the employer, assuming Varys could even get him to understand what was wanted of him.

Once in his room, he quickly closed the door and sat at his desk, taking quill and parchment and scratching out the same message several times. With the first batch done, he went to the raven cages, clipped a scrap of parchment to their legs, and sent several birds away. Come what may, by morning the news of Aegon Targaryen's true lineage would be known to all Westeros.

A flash of light in the courtyard down below caught his attention, where several soldiers carrying torches were marching swiftly towards his tower. Varys sighed again. Tyrion had looked uneasy, even guilty, at dinner. Why was it that the man with the most deformed body had been the closest thing to a straight and honest friend the spymaster had ever encountered? He returned to the desk, took certain papers and cast them into the fire, and sent off a final raven.

He looked cooly out the window, as though following the raven's progress despite the moonless night, hands clasped behind his back. He could hear the door opening and kept looking out. They would not catch him like a common thief, stunned with the horror of capture. He had a certain reputation as a cunning mastermind he would like to maintain until the very end. Better by far to face capture with dignity, with the unshakable sentiment of having done the right thing and failed.

The door closed. Varys turned, and was unable to hide his surprise.

* * *

Grey Worm ordered the soldiers behind him to halt. The Wolf's aged soothsayer, dressed in wolf furs and carrying a staff topped by a long-dead bird, was coming down the stairs leading to Varys' chambers.

"You. Have you seen Varys? Has he left his room?"

The sorcerer smiled, causing the soldiers behind Grey Worm to wince, holding up a jug that smelled of honey and alcohol.

"I know you can speak, sorcerer. Is he up there?"

The sorcerer shrugged.

"Who can say?"

Without looking further at him, Grey Worm led the squad upstairs. Sven Swordeater took a swig from his jug.

A short while later, the same soldiers ran down the stairs, swords drawn. Grey Worm grabbed Sven by the shoulder.

"Where is he!? What have you done with him!?"

The sorcerer looked peacefully at him before shrugging again.

"Changer took him. Who can know where men go when gods take them?"

Grey Worm signaled two guards. Each grabbed an arm and led the unresisting sorcerer away, another taking his staff and jug.

* * *

On the beach, Danaerys stood waiting. A downcast Tyrion and apprehensive-looking Jon Snow shuffled behind her, along with a contingent of Dragonstone guards. Another ran up from the castle.

"Well?"

The guard looked uneasy.

"We... we haven't found him, your grace. He's gone."

Confused mutterings sprang up behind. Danaerys looked at the guard's face.

"But if you did not find him, you found something else. What is it?"

The guard looked surprised. Grey Worm's arrival, followed by Sven and his wardens, spared him from answering.

"We did not find the traitor. But we found this!"

Two more guards stepped forward, one bearing a small rug.

"We found this on the floor. Someone spilled strong drink on it. Smelling the same as this man's jug."

Grey Worm then took the sorcerer's staff and took something from his pocket.

"And next to it, this feather."

The ancient and brittle feather Grey Worm showed clearly had not come from a living bird, and he placed it against the mummified raven's wing atop the staff. There was no doubt that they were the same.

Danaerys looked at Sven, who had been forced to his knees in the sand. Rather than terrified or repentant, he still had a peaceful expression that only fueled her anger.

"Speak. What have you done with Varys?"

Once again, the sorcerer shrugged, his tone halting, but showing no fear.

"Taken by Changer. Where Changer sent him, not know."

"Did your master put you up to this?"

Sven only laughed.

"What Jarl Strong Wolf want with geldingr? Him need strong foes for take trophies, not coward poisoner."

Grey Worm spoke up.

"I have sent for him."

Moments later, an Unsullied approached, the Wolf in tow. Some were surprised to see him still in full armor, as though he never took it off even while sleeping onboard his ship. On arriving, he yawned hugely, sniffed and scratched his beard. The parallel to a hibernating bear woken up and currently too sleepy to be enraged did not escape the crowd.

"You wanted to see me, Dragonqueen? Hope it's for something good at this hour."

He rotated his head on his neck, cracking and popping sounds echoing up and down the beach, causing whimpers among the more delicate onlookers.

"Someone has attempted to poison me."

"They did?"

The Wolf looked Danaerys up and down with bleary eyes.

"Glad to see they failed. So what's that got to do with me?"

"We cannot find the poisoner."

The Wolf's face spoke volumes as to his complete indifference to the matter.

"Poisoners rarely stay around to check that their potions took effect. It's the main attraction of poison to the cowardly, in fact. ... Still not seeing why it's worth waking me up at-"

Danaerys took the opportunity to interrupt him.

"We didn't find the poisoner, but we did find evidence that your sorcerer was with him. He hasn't denied it, but he won't tell us what he did with him."

The Wolf stared blankly at Danaerys, then his sorcerer, before setting his gaze back on her.

"I'm going to kill him."

"**SVEN!**"

Without warning, the Wolf lunged forward, bowling aside the luckless guards. He grabbed Sven by the neck and shook him like a ragdoll, roaring what could only be insults and abuse at him in their own language, pointing his free hand back at Danaerys before drawing it up as if threatening to slap the sorcerer's head off. Whatever reply the seer gave was evidently unsatisfactory, for the Wolf brought them nose-to-nose and yelled even louder.

Finally he dropped Sven to the ground, turned on his heel, and planted himself before Danaerys.

"Dragonqueen. My seer has killed or removed a man whose fate was yours to determine, with no right to do so, while under my banner. If you will it, he shall suffer the fate reserved for poisoners among my people, then I will hand him over to you to do as you see fit."

Tyrion looked worried. The Wolf had been openly contemptuous of his sorcerer, but to give him up without further trial seemed excessive. And what magic had the soothsayer used to utterly destroy Varys' body?

"Did he say why he killed Varys?"

The Wolf looked at Jon.

"He won't even admit to killing him. Just says he was "taken by the gods". He lacks even the courage to own up to his crime."

"So Varys is still alive?"

The Wolf shrugged.

"That... I cannot say. But in the absence of him or his corpse, the punishment can still be applied, and a warning sent to your enemies."

Danaerys looked thoughtful.

"And what fate do you reserve for poisoners?"

The Wolf smirked.

"Let's just say I hope you don't intend to work him to death in a mine or lock him up for decades so his screams lull you to sleep."

Danaerys looked at him, searching for any hint of duplicity, but his expression seemed entirely genuine. A bully, that's all he was, a bully who reveled in brutalizing the weak, even moreso with the approval of those more powerful than him. She nodded.

The Wolf returned to his victim and hauled him roughly up, one hand rummaging around in the sorcerer's collection of pouches. Finally he snatched at one, holding it aloft as he dropped the soothsayer. A greenish glow emanated from between his armored fingers.

"Warpstone! The foulest poison known to apothecaries. Not even the jungles of Lustria can produce anything to rival it. To eat it is to die in pain as innards are ravaged and consumed by fire from within. I wouldn't be surprised if it was intended to be sold to your poisoner."

The Wolf stepped back between the audience and the sorcerer and faced the sea, as if delivering an edict.

"Sven Vidkunsson, called Swordeater. You have have obstructed the justice of the Dragonqueen by killing or hiding away a fugitive poisoner, and so his crime falls on your head. For attempting to murder her by means most cowardly and unworthy of the Norsca, I sentence you to the horrors of the twisting death, and consign your soul to the Daemon Sea."

Forcing Sven's mouth open, he dropped the glowing pebble inside. Pinching the man's nose, he held firm until Sven visibly swallowed, then returned to Danaerys' side, ignoring the sorcerer collapsing to one knee and breathing shallowly.

"All yours, Dragonqueen."

Danaerys was about to speak, when the Wolf suddenly interrupted.

"Wait... his staff. Where's his staff?"

The guard still holding the staff held it up. The Wolf looked relieved.

"Put it in his hands, quick!"

The guard looked to Danaerys, but she stared at the Wolf in visible confusion.

"Don't let him die without it!"

The Wolf's tone of urgency was such that the guard hurriedly shoved the staff into Sven's hands before backing away. The sorcerer grasped at it and used it to lever himself up from the sand, leaning heavily onto it, now wheezing and coughing. A faint glow could be seen whenever he opened his mouth.

"Whatever you do to him, Dragonqueen, make sure the staff is destroyed shortly after. There's tales of wizards cheating death by hiding their souls in there, possessing the first poor bastard to come along and grab it with bare hands."

Danaerys looked coldly at the cringing figure, who clapped a hand to his throat and bit down. Flames of all colors erupted from his eyes, and glowing green saliva dribbled from his mouth. Quite a few people screamed, but Danaerys said a single word that cut through the chaos.

"_Dracarys_."

From behind the gathered audience erupted the monstrous form of Drogon, maw gaping wide. A wave of fire poured from his jaws, the sorcerer grabbing his staff with both hands as if to protect himself, and there was an explosion of purple and blue flames surrounding him. Drogon breathed harder still, and with a thunderclap the unnatural flames disappeared, as though devoured by the dragon's wrath.

As Drogon's fury subsided, there was nothing left of the sorcerer, only a patch of fused glass that plinked as it cooled. Danerys looked straight at it, but there was no doubt that her next words were intended for all.

"Thus do I deal with traitors."

The Wolf grinned.

"And well-dealt indeed. I only wish I could have done the same in my time."

His hand fell on her shoulder in a gesture of approval. Grey Worm started.

"Knew I backed the right queen."

Turning, he stepped on the glass, shattering it, then headed back towards the harbor. Danaerys watched him leave before turning around, daring any present to challenge her authority or demand that she justify herself.

None rose up.


	12. Chapter 6,4

The very afternoon of the soothsayer's execution, Tyrion, looking for some reprieve from his thoughts, looked out at the unusual activity on the beach, near the colossal battering ram. The Seafang had been beached, and the marauders were rolling dozens of barrels from the Seafang's hold to an elongated wooden structure being erected under the Wolf's supervision. He walked there, grateful for the distraction.

"Ser Wolf, what's going on?"

The Wolf turned.

"Old custom among the tribes of the Norsca. We hold a great feast before the raiders set out, in the not-unlikely event it's the last one they share."

"You are invited, of course."

Tyrion started.

"As is the Dragonqueen, and any she should wish to bring with her, though I expect them to refuse so as not to compromise themselves with the lower orders."

"You think _that's_ why she wouldn't come?"

"There'll be strong drink, grilled meat and singing. Nothing too different from her days with the horse-lovers."

Tyrion turned to leave, but the Wolf continued speaking.

"Oh, if you see the big woman guarding your brother, tell her to come along."

Tyrion gaped a few times, shook his head and went back to the castle. Poor Brienne would still not be free of amorous attentions from large men.

* * *

Tyrion entered the chamber. The queen was staring out of a window overlooking the beach with a distasteful expression. The sky was grey and overcast, which doubtless did not help her mood.

"My queen, have you heard? The Wolf is-"

"Getting his sailors good and drunk, yes."

Danaerys looked from the beach to Tyrion, though her expression did not change.

"The more I see him the less I like him. Why _did_ you hire him as your bodyguard?"

Tyrion looked to the side.

"I thought his loyalty might hold firmer with gold. At least we know he's here and not proposing his services to Cersei."

"Why?"

Tyrion looked up.

"Why do such... such barbarians inspire so much loyalty? I came across the sea to reclaim what was mine, to bring freedom to the people, to break the wheel, and now half the continent takes up arms against me. And he..."

Danaerys gestured towards the window.

"He has only to show up, to be louder and crasser than anyone else, to revel in the violence he causes, and yet they think him all the better for it. Look at the bloodriders who sullied my banner, he bought them from me, insults them and drills them harsher than I ever did, and now they seem to have been his for years. Just like... just like the Baratheon who murdered my brother. Who tried to have me murdered."

Tyrion stayed silent, feeling she was not actually questioning him.

"His advisor betrays him, and he gives him up for execution without an instant's hesitation. Look at how long it took you to report Varys' treachery to me."

Tyrion struggled to keep his mouth shut. He'd promised himself to tell Danaerys if ever she were to slip into tyranny, and here she was starting to become blind to her faults.

"Is this the way the world will always be? Can you break the wheel if the sufferers want to return underneath it? Is my kindness and generosity wasted on them, and will they only give their respect to those who drive them into the ground?"

Tyrion shrugged.

"There are men who emulate what they are not, and admire what they cannot be. Many a squire thinks that he is apprenticed to a hero. And the Wolf is hardly the first man to win over followers with sheer strength. Drogo-"

"He is _nothing_ like Drogo."

"Drogo was kind, he could be gentle, this _oaf_ seems to delight in trampling roughshod over everyone he meets, as if he needed to pick a fight with them."

"I think he does."

Danaerys looked at Tyrion.

"From the number of those skulls, and his repeated assertions that he wants strong enemies to fight... I think he really _does_ try to pick a fight with everyone he sees, in case they might provide him with a good battle and a trophy."

"Even those who obviously can't? You can't tell me you've never wanted to hit him."

Tyrion shook his head.

"Oh no, I feel that often enough. I even had to stop Jaime from going after him at Winterfell."

"And yet you stay with him?"

Tyrion shrugged again.

"If he's with me, he's not under your feet or saying gods-know-what to Drogon. And at least he doesn't make dwarf jokes."

Danaerys fell silent, while Tyrion tried to find a more cheerful subject.

"How are things with Jon? Are you..."

"Jon? I am Jon's queen. That is all."

There was a world of bitterness in Danaerys' voice. Tyrion almost pressed the matter, but shut his mouth.

"Tyrion, I want you to be at that feast."

Tyrion said nothing.

"You say that you drink and know things. I want you to drink little, but by tomorrow I want you to know more about the Wolf. What is he here for? What does he plan to do after the throne is mine? How does he speak to my children?"

"The last one at least he claimed is a gift from the gods. And with his attitude... I wonder if it isn't something that makes it easier for him to pick fights. As for the rest, it will be done."

Tyrion hesitated.

"He... he said you were invited."

Danaerys goggled at him.

"But he fully expects you to ref- turn it down."

"Did he say it was because as queen, I have for more important things to do?"

"Not... quite. He said it was so as not to lower yourself among the soldiery."

"So he's used to working for high-born."

Danaerys turned back to the window.

"Find out what you can about him. Loosen his lips, he might be more talkative if he feels in charge."

"As you wish."

Tyrion turned around, leaving Danaerys to look out the window. He shook his head. Missandei's presence would have been a great boon to the queen. Now, having lost her lover, her friend, and her spymaster in short order, she had only him to rely on.

* * *

"Ser Wolf. I have received your... invitation."

Brienne stood before the Wolf, still in armor, her hand on the hilt of Oathkeeper. Tyrion had warned her against it, but she had no intention of letting yet another man mock her face-to-face. The giant was sitting on an empty barrel turned on its side, the iron bands visibly bending under his weight.

"I take it you wish to show your crew of rapists and thieves the fighting-woman, as the island is lacking in dancing bears, prostitutes or other forms of entertainment?"

"Quite the contrary."

The Wolf stood up, waving away one of his henchmen who was trying to get his attention.

"Truth be told, one of my crew has a tendency to overestimate his ability as a fighter, and believes he could floor you with barely an effort. I would indeed consider it a favor if you were to attend, if only to teach him the respect owed to a woman who's earned her place among true warriors."

Brienne hesitated. The barbarian's language seemed oddly cultured for a man wearing the skulls of fallen foes, he sounded more like a knight of the Reach than a Wildling.

"And are such women so rare among your kind that he doesn't know any?"

The Wolf sighed.

"Sadly, they are not so common, and so become the stuff of legend. I have seen my share of fighting, and know that skill at arms is no question of what hangs or doesn't between one's legs. It even provides a certain unfair advantage, as you'll doubtless have learned."

Brienne nodded, that at least was true.

"But he is young, and inexperienced, and therefore disinclined to believe his elders. I remember when I was young and thought I knew everything there was to know about fighting... I'm still grateful to the man who beat my illusions out of me. In time, perhaps he will too."

Brienne looked the Wolf in the eye. There was no hint of irony in his voice, nor had he made any comment about her appearance.

"And you haven't beaten him to prove your point?"

The Wolf grinned slowly.

"I could, but then he'd only learn what he already knows regarding our relative strengths. No, it was his choice to proclaim himself a better warrior than you, now he must prove it."

The Wolf looked to the side, where an argument had broken out between two of his marauders. He frowned, then turned back to Brienne.

"To tell you the truth, this is his first raid with me, and what experience he has with women involves stabbing them with something else entirely. You would do him, and me, a great service if you were to correct his misconceptions. And of course, there will be fine wines, the best that Bordeleaux and Wurtbad have to offer, if you are not of the abstemious sort who view drinking, singing and merriness below them."

Brienne looked the Wolf hard in the eye, having never heard of the places he mentioned. His face, brutal and hairy as it was, showed no duplicity. Then she nodded.

"Very well."

"Excellent! Thank you for accepting, Ser Brienne of Tarth, I will see you tonight."

The Wolf, having one-sidedly ended the conversation, stepped around Brienne. She watched him stride over to the marauders, who were now on the ground wrestling each other, and pick one up in each hand and repeatedly bring their heads together.

* * *

In the cells of Dragonstone, Tyrion prodded his former squire in the ribs to wake him up. Podrick started and dropped the keys, bent over to pick them up, dropped his sword, and dropped the keys again when he picked up the sword. Standing shamefaced in front of Tyrion, he reddened further when Jaime's voice was heard from behind the cell door.

"What's that noise out there? Are we under attack?"

"No, no, it's fine. It's me. Podrick, go wait for me outside, will you?"

"Yes m'lord!"

Podrick hurried off, the keys jangling. Tyrion watched him go, shaking his head before looking up at the narrow crossbars, the only opening in the door. He could barely make out his brother's face clearly in the gloom, but Jamie could see the top of his head.

"So? How did you get caught?"

"Never had a chance. Brienne told me I should stay, and then... I don't know what came over her, but she grabbed me from behind, pinned my arms, and had my own belt around me before I knew what was happening."

"That sort of treatment would cost a month's wages at the better class of brothel, and here you are getting the same treatment for free. You lucky man."

The brothers shared a laugh.

"So, how is your favor with Danaerys? Can you get me out?"

"On the contrary, I'm keeping you in. Can't have getting yourself killed by the guards if you try to sneak away on a ship. She's in a mood to send the Wolf after you."

"The _what!? _That lunatic is still here?! What is she thinking!?"

"He showed up by himself and offered his services. I..."

Even as he spoke, Tyrion felt how very foolish his actions seemed.

"… I hired him as my bodyguard in case Bronn shows up again."

Jaime pounded the bars of his cell.

"You're losing your touch. Even if he is easily manipulated, you really think you can get rid of him so easily? For gods' sakes, you've seen him butcher the Mountain, what hope do you have? He could sit on you and never realize it!"

"He scared off Euron."

"Of course he did, look at the size of him! … How?"

"As the Wolf explained it, he threatened to kill Euron then and there if he didn't sail the fleet away. And warned him that the Salt Throne was no longer his."

"And you saw this?"

"Almost. We nearly ran into the Silence, he dropped us off,and kept going towards the ship. When he came back to get us, we saw the Silence sailing away, and Euron standing on it waving at us. He's picked up a new helmet from somewhere, ugly-looking thing with spikes all over it."

Jamie shook his head.

"And how do you know he'll keep his word once the city is taken?"

"Well if he wants paying, he needs me alive. And I don't present a very tempting target to him. He really does seem to only battle those who can give him a good fight."

"And what else do you hope to do?"

"He's invited me to go drink with him."

Jamie stared at his brother. It was a look that wordlessly combined anger, amusement, and resignation.

"Danaerys thinks I should go as well. It may be a good way to get to learn what he wants."

"Other than more skulls? What happened to knowing things?"

"I _do_ know things. By drinking, I will know more things."

Jaime said nothing. The unspoken question hung between them.

Tyrion sighed.

"Before the assault, I'll make one last attempt at saving her. With Davos' help, you'll both be in Pentos before the year's end."

Tyrion left the cells, not half as convinced of his success as he'd wanted to be.


	13. Chapter 6,5

That evening, Tyrion walked down to the beach, followed by Brienne, wearing their finest clothes. Podrick followed a few steps behind, carrying their cloaks. They had debated whether or not to bring him along, then decided that such an occasion was a perfect occasion for a squire to practice his skills, even among warlike barbarians.

They approached the longhouse, which was surrounded by blazing torches. Tyrion looked about him as he entered. The structure was wide enough to accommodate two rows of tables several feet apart, each occupied on one side by the enormous marauders, but far enough from the walls that cupbearers could pass unimpeded, and capped off at one end by a chair so huge it could only belong to the Wolf. At the far end he recognized the Deathbound bloodriders.

Benches ran the length of the longhouse, though next to the colossal throne were a pair of high-backed chairs. The roughly-hewn tables groaned under the weight of platters bearing slices of grilled meat as thick as a man's arm, which the marauders devoured with gusto. The improvised hall was lit by braseroes placed between the tables, the smoke escaping through holes in the roof. The floor was the sand of the beach itself, though it had been cleared of debris.

The Wolf himself came to greet his guests, showing them to their seats. Tyrion heard some sniggering as he climbed into his chair, but a clacking of skulls told him the Wolf must have turned his head at the sound.

As Tyrion sat down, a bald and bearded marauder placed a small golden goblet in front of him. It was a wondrously-crafted thing, showing short, stocky figures in magnificent armor and beards reaching to their knees. The Wolf snarled.

"Einarr! það er of lítið!"

The Wolf continued berating his henchman, who swiftly returned, carrying a visibly larger cup ornamented with rubies the size of Tyrion's fist. In it was a clear liquid that smelled strongly of honey.

The rest of the feasters looked expectantly at their captain. The Wolf raised his enormous tankard and yelled "Skull!", perhaps owing to his preferred decoration. They repeated the cry, lifting drinking horns Tyrion couldn't have carried with both hands and draining them as one.

Tyrion drained his cup, surprised that far from the rotgut he had expected such men to drink, it was quite pleasant. Brienne was similarly impressed, looking at her own goblet, a silver cup finely engraved with long-haired women with pointed ears.

The Wolf yelled something, and a marauder dragged a terrified-looking minstrel into the middle of the longhouse. The man looked all around him with wide eyes, protectively clutching a curious instrument like a fiddle with a wheel. The Wolf yelled at him and threw a small purse at his feet. The minstrel gulped visibly, but soon started singing a tune that grew in strength and confidence.

It was clearly an old favorite with the marauders, who were singing along in various keys and tempoes depending on how many toasts they'd participated in.

Several cups later, the Wolf bellowed a request, and the minstrel sang in a different tongue, though it was no less alien to Tyrion. At the end of the song, the Wolf burst into raucous laughter, soon followed by the other marauders. Tyrion, halfway through a goblet of the richest beer he had ever tasted, realized few of them could understand the song, and were only laughing along because their captain was.

"What was that about?"

The Wolf wiped a tear from his eye before answering.

"Bretonnian song. About an elf, a bag of apples, and the horrible fate bestowed on both by a Chaos troll."

Another marauder yelled at the minstrel, tossing a handful of coins at him to loud cheers from his fellows. The minstrel started another song with a faster rhythm, soon drowned out by the marauders pounding their cups, fists, and in one case, a passed-out comrade's skull, against the tables.

"Jarl!"

Once the minstrel had finished, a particularly fat marauder stood up from behind a tower of empty plates and pointed at Tyrion, bellowing something.

"Njall Never-Full would hear the southerlings sing, though he expects to be disappointed. You want him to piss off?"

Without a word, Tyrion finished his cup, stood on the chair and hopped onto the table. An expectant silence grew out around him, the Wolf looking amused. Tyrion spread his arms wide.

"Podrick?"

"Yes m'lord!"

"These... gentlemen would like to hear you sing."

Podrick looked around uncertainly at the hairy barbarians surrounding him. Then he grabbed a drinking horn from a passing servant, drained it in a single gulp, and launched into song.

* * *

When it was over, the Wolf looked over his warriors, many of which were silent.

"You a minstrel, boy?"

Unsure as to how he should answer the barbarian speaking to him, Podrick looked down at Tyrion and Brienne, who nodded at him.

"No, m'lord. I'm a squire. To Ser Brienne."

"Hmph. Can't say I liked the lyrics."

"Njall!"

The Wolf yelled at the obese marauder, who stood up with some difficulty, then tramped up to Podrick, slapping a flipper-like hand on his shoulder and and thrust a jewel-hilted dagger into Podrick's belt.

"He liked it, in any case. To the southerlings, who can sing better than they fight!"

The Wolf yelled something to his marauders, ending with another cry of "Skull!"

The feasters still able to lift their drinks did so, and the night went on.

* * *

After a time Brienne looked around. The Wolf was engrossed in telling Tyrion a ribald tale involving a very self-satisfied man finding an unusual solution to missing a bench at his wedding feast. As she turned her head, she saw one of the revelers was drinking less than his comrades and staring intently at her.

Where most of the Wolf's marauders could be mistaken for bears in dim light, this one was not as tall or hairy as his comrades but still visibly muscled, long, Lannister-blonde hair dangling in thick plaits, and a chin as smooth as a maiden's. Clearly not one used to being dismissed by womenfolk.

The marauder caught her eye, and smirked.

"… but then in walks the bride, and all twelve of them go flying up, and break their necks when they hit their heads on the rafters!"

Tyrion laughed almost as loud as the Wolf. The handsome marauder took advantage of the lull in the conversation to stand up and leap lithely over the table, swaggering to stand before the Wolf.

His face was a mask of arrogance, as he turned to Brienne and said something that went on for a while, making several obscene gestures that made his meaning quite clear. The Wolf translated, though without the hand motions.

"Snorri Fairhair challenges Ser Brienne of Tarth to a test of strength and valor."

Tyrion spoke up as Brienne looked the marauder up and down.

"I take it that wasn't a literal translation?"

"Would you like the literal one?"

Brienne interrupted.

"Thank you, I think I rather understood. Would he be satisfied with flooring me, or are there other conditions?"

The Wolf took a gulp from his tankard.

"A single wrestling match, with the loser obeying the winner's demands until the sun rises. He was rather specific with those demands, if you want t-"

"Thank you, no."

Brienne stared coolly at the marauder.

"With or without armor?"

The Wolf translated the question. Snorri sniggered as he answered while bringing both hands to his groin.

"He says with, it'll be a finer victory for him, and more exciting once he pulls it off you."

"Here and now?"

The Wolf transmitted the question the the marauder, who looked surprised and less self-assured, but nodded. The Wolf's translation was entirely unnecessary.

"Very well. Any special rules? No biting, no gouging, that sort of thing? I wouldn't want to leave him disfigured, he looks the type to rely on his looks to get him by."

A visibly amused Wolf gave the answer.

"Usually the only rule is empty hands and nothing below the belt, but..."

Brienne nodded and stood up, taking the long way around the tables. Snorri smirked as Brienne passed him and waited until she had turned around to make a lecherous gesture with his tongue and fingers. Tyrion stared. The man's tongue was at least twice the length of an ordinary man's, and forked at the end like a snake's.

The marauder spread his arms wide, then said something that elicited raucous cheers among his comrades. Brienne waited until they had quieted down.

"Ser Wolf?"

"He said he'll make you scream four times: once in pain during the wrestling, and three times in pleasure while he's fucking you."

Snorri helpfully made thrusting motions with his hips into his cupped hands in case there were some who hadn't understood. Brienne made sure to put an undercurrent of disappointment in her reply.

"Only three?"

The Wolf snorted into his drink, spraying wine and coughing a few times before he was able to translate. Brienne was secretly pleased to have shattered the barbarian's annoyingly superior air and to see that several of the marauders looked impressed, some of them laughing. A lifetime spent fighting men and learning to puncture their egos was paying off handsomely. Snorri looked quite unhappy at having been upstaged, balling and unballing his fists.

The Wolf stood up, holding an empty gold-encrusted drinking horn high.

"When you hear it fall."

Brienne locked gazes with Snorri. The Wolf dropped the horn, which fell against the table with a clang.

Snorri lunged, both arms wide as if to catch Brienne around the waist and hoist her over his shoulder, but in an instant Brienne had caught his arm and pulled it to the side, leaving Snorri to spin around, stumbling into her extended leg and falling flat on his back on the sand with one arm across his chest as she released her grip.

Stunned silence filled the feast hall as Brienne knelt on her opponent's torso, pinning his arm under her knees, then grabbing his flailing arm with both hands, twisting it.

The hall filled with roars of laughter, cheers, and what sounded like encouragement and insults. Brienne managed to avoid smiling as she looked at the shamefaced barbarian. When he finally stopped struggling, she dropped his arm and got up, turning to return to her seat.

Entirely certain as to how he would react, she spun around even before the surprised noises in the audience could warn her.

Snorri's fist, closed on a heavy metal tankard, crashed onto her breastplate and splashing it with strong-smelling wine. He only had time to look surprised before she backhanded him, still wearing her steel gauntlet, smashing him into the table, spilling food and drink. Angry hands pushed him away from the table, and the marauder slithered down, looking up at Brienne towering over him, nose and lips bleeding, all trace of arrogance gone.

She gave him a contemptuous glance.

"Is he surrendering yet, Ser Wolf? I believe he might need the use of both his hands for the upcoming siege."

"Indeed he will. Though given his performance, he might do better if they were broken."

The Wolf barked at the marauder. His companions' jeers rang out even louder as he nodded, then looked fearfully up at Brienne, still standing over him.

"Bit short, but well fought. He is yours until the dawn, Ser Brienne of Tarth."

"Hmm. What _shall_ I do with him?"

Brienne looked over the marauder thoughtfully. Wine dripped from her breastplate.

"Podrick, help me remove this."

Podrick crawled under the table to join Brienne, undoing the shoulder straps of her breastplate. The Wolf didn't need to translate what the other marauders were saying when they saw she wore a loose-fitting jerkin underneath, their expressions of disappointment were clear enough. Snorri successively looked apprehensive, then confused, then hopeful, until Brienne placed the armor in his arms.

"He soiled my armor as he intended to soil me, he can clean and polish it until the sun rises!"

The Wolf smashed his fist on the table.

"**HA!**"

The barbarian translated the order, clearly enjoying himself. There were hoots of derisive laughter from the tables, Snorri looking furious and standing up. He threw the breastplate to the ground, facing the Wolf, but Tyrion saw his face pale and his eyes turn down. Looking at the Wolf, he noted the giant's hand was resting ostentatiously near a knife that could have served as a sword for a regular-sized man.

Snorri picked up the armor, huffing under the weight, and carried it over to the side of the longhouse, where he sat down, grabbed a rag and started cleaning the armor.

"Sarr Brienne af Tarth! Skull!"

The Wolf lifted his tankard, imitated by the rest of the drinkers. Brienne returned to her seat and sat down. Cupbearers were returning to fill horns and tankards, but she could tell her feat had rubbed several of the men the wrong way, stealing dark glances at her. She ignored them, having had ample experience with such occurrences.

"You really invited Brienne just to do that?"

"He boasted that no woman could resist him in battle or in bed. Any man who sails with me must make good on his claims."

Tyrion looked at the marauder scrubbing away.

"Is it really that much of a flaw?"

The Wolf wiped his mouth and looked at Tyrion, grabbing a golden drinking horn his henchman had just placed in front of him.

"It is a dangerous thing to make idle boasts you cannot back up. I learned that to my cost long ago, and will not see it happen on my ship if I can help it."

Tyrion looked incredulous.

"Like your Dothraki? I doubt there's any man who's never boasted of his real or imaginary exploits while drunk."

Beer erupted from the Wolf's drinking horn as his fist closed on it, crushing in an heartbeat. The Wolf seemed to be looking at something thousands of miles away.

"Got _that_ right."

As the Wolf yelled at his henchman behind him, Tyrion and Brienne exchanged a look. Each made a silent vow to avoid asking the Wolf about what seemed a very touchy subject. The bald marauder took the crumpled wreck and replaced it with a tankard nearly two feet tall. Brienne interested herself in a plate of roasted meat.

The Wolf, his new tankard in hand, took a swig and looked at Tyrion.

"Speaking of feats that sound impossible. How _did_ you come to kill a man with a shield?"

Tyrion sighed.

"It's not a regular occurrence, I assure you. I was ambushed, one of my attackers fell to the ground, I grabbed a shield and beat his head into pulp."

Tyrion drained his cup but found the Wolf looking thoughtfully at him.

"As good a method as any, given the circumstances."

The Wolf rose to his feet, holding his tankard aloft.

"Tyrion Skaldslaktr! Skull!"

The feasters raised their cups again and the Wolf sat down.

"You do anything else worthy of note, Shield-slayer?"

Tyrion held out his cup, Podrick quickly filling it.

"Well, there was the time I walked into a chamber containing a pair of live dragons."

The Wolf grinned.

"Of course you did. There's much to say about dwarves, but lacking courage isn't one of them."

The Wolf finished his drink, leaving Tyrion puzzled at his meaning.

"And what'd you do then? Kill them both, beat them into submission or shame them with the size of your balls?"

"No, I unchained them. They were kept apart from each other, and...went right back to sleep next to each other."

Though bleary-eyed, the Wolf looked at Tyrion with what looked like respect.

"You unchained them. Just like that. Well, I can certainly understand that going up to your sister unarmed holds no fear after pulling something like _that_. I don't think your namesake could ever claim to have done something similar."

"My... namesake?"

"Another Tyrion."

The Wolf downed his tankard.

"Nothing like you though, arrogant bastard, tall for his kind, hair like Snorri over there... Good fighter, but he won't take kindly to knowing there's someone with his name walking up to chained dragons, freeing them and emerging unscathed. I'll be sure to tell him if I see him."

The Wolf chuckled at what seemed to be a private joke. Another barrel was brought out and tapped, to the audible joy of those still drinking.

Tyrion, feeling inspired by the wine, felt another story was called for.

"And then, there was the time I brought a donkey and a honeycomb into a brothel..."

* * *

Hours later, Brienne had long since retired and Podrick been given permission to relieve himself outside, as his incessant squirming was getting on Tyrion's nerves.

Tyrion would have been entirely unable to recount how it had happened, but the topic had turned to love.

"Her father was opposed to it on principle, thought she was too good for the likes of me... Where his ancestors had carved out their holding by sweat and blood, he made deals and alliances, growing fat on tribute rather than stolen plunder. He saw her as a piece on his playing-board, her happiness irrelevant in the face of his grandiose plans. You must know some people like that."

Tyrion stared into his cup. He had indeed known someone like that, and even shot him with a crossbow.

"And then I..."

The Wolf's voice trailed off.

"I lost her. All thanks to her father, curse his name. I would..."

The Wolf drained his tankard.

"I would never have found happiness, nor could I have given her the life she deserved. I can see that now, but I found that out in a manner needlessly cruel on his part."

Tyrion, remembering the Mountain's excruciating death and not wanting to know what the barbarian considered needless cruelty, stayed silent but drank again.

"When did you kill your father?"

Through the haze of wine, Tyrion vaguely felt as though he should be offended. But coming from the Wolf, who seemed to judge a man's worth by the number and relative worth of victims, the question seemed entirely natural, as if asking how many winters one had survived.

"After you came and killed the Mountain. I was back in my cell, my brother broke me out, and I went up for a last word with my father. I found him... or rather, I found the woman I loved, in his bed. Just after they'd..."

The Wolf said nothing. Tyrion pushed on anyway, his own voice sounding as though it belonged to someone else.

"I... murdered her. I didn't mean to, I didn't _want_ to, and yet her blood remains on my hands just the same. After that, killing my father was barely an afterthought. Tywin Lannister, killed by his son while taking a shit... "

Tyrion drank deep. He noticed the Wolf was staring into the depths of his own tankard. The wine pushed him to ask.

"And you?"

The Wolf sighed like a hurricane.

"Nothing so liberating. After I k- ... After I... lost her, when the moment came to make her father pay for the life he had denied us... I let him live. It would have brought me great pleasure to gut him then and there, alone in his darkened hall, abandoned by vassals and allies alike, but I knew it would be better in the long run to let him live long enough to see his life's work, all that his forefathers had striven to build up from nothing, ravaged and brought to ruin in less than a year. He even tried to apologize, after he had exhausted all other options."

Tyrion snorted.

"Mine didn't."

"Then whatever your father's faults, he was braver than Viglundr Lie-Spewer."

Without a word, the giant and the dwarf's cups collided, and both were drained in a single gulp.

His cup empty, searching desperately for a way to lighten the mood, Tyrion pointed to a particularly deformed skull on the Wolf's armor, too long and fang-filled to be a man's and yet too short to be a dog's.

"What the hell was that thing?"

The Wolf picked up the skull, seemingly glad for the interruption from what must have been melancholic thoughts.

"This? One of the first ones I took when the gods deemed there were no suitable heads left for me to take east, west and south of Norsca. They tasked me with killing a wolf-kin, who I found in the middle of a war between wizards. Magic flying everywhere, children fighting with the courage of men... a courage he lacked. After a few, increasingly sad attempts on my life, he fled, into a forest of horrible things, living plants and giant spiders and worse."

"The bastard ran for so long the sun was rising when I finally slew him, and he was halfway through transforming into what you see here, neither fully man nor wolf... and of course, making his hide useless as a rug, which had been my intent."

"What... or where is Norsca?"

"My home. It's far to the north. _Very_ far."

The Wolf finished his tankard, and yelled at his henchman. Tyrion looked around. Podrick reentered the hall, an expression of blissful relief on his face. Three marauders entered after him, looking at him with expressions of awe, horror and jealousy respectively.

"What will you do after the siege, Ser Wolf? Will you remain in Danaerys' employ?"

"I'll likely not remain at all. A free Norscan with a ship who remains in the same place grows soft. We come from harsh lands, and it made us strong. As Viglundr forgot."

The Wolf drained his tankard.

"No, once the city is taken and our deal ended, I will set sail again. I never know where the gods will send me next."

"Your gods... speak to you?"

"In a way. I receive dreams, visions, of the man or beast the gods wish to see beheaded. I see him, I see those around him, I see the lands where he lives... more or less."

The Wolf shrugged.

"It wouldn't be as satisfying a hunt if I were to jump him in the bath or a whorehouse."

Tyrion stared.

"I too have seen men, monsters and faraway places and in my sleep, especially if there was a lot of cheese at dinner, and yet felt no inclination to see them for myself."

Strangely, the Wolf did not look insulted.

"Ah, but you were not chosen by the gods for such a destiny. They must have other plans for you, or how could you have evaded death so often, been spared for so long, been granted so many chances ordinary men would slit throats to obtain, been brought so low and now set to rise even higher? You were born with a body that would have condemned you to a life of abuse and contempt from even gutter-trash, capering at the beck and call of some petty Southerner lordling, the lowest of the low, the weakest of the weak."

Despite the offensive description, Tyrion felt it was a list of facts rather than the Wolf's usual provocative intent.

"And yet here you are, feared and respected as the right hand of the Dragonqueen, on the cusp of victory, ready to take back her city, to stand triumphant over your sister, to avenge yourself of every wrong she has heaped upon you over the years. I take it the incident with your nephew was only the culmination of a lifetime of hate?"

Tyrion drained his cup.

"Yes. Ever since childhood, she... blamed me for our mother's death. Difficult birth. Tyrion Lannister, the self-made orphan..."

Tyrion shook his head as if to dispel evil memories.

"And then there was the incident, as you say, but I cannot claim to have lost much sleep over that."

Tyrion could not help but smile at the memory of Cersei's face at his trial, shortly before his clever decision to demand trial by combat turned against him.

"Ill-tempered little bastard, was he?"

Tyrion chuckled.

"In more ways than one, yes. Spoiled, self-centered, obeying his own whims... He was one of the worst kings we ever had, vicious _and_ stupid all in one... and a coward to boot."

"Ah. I've known many like him."

The Wolf turned around, his tankard remaining empty. His henchman was leaning against a barrel, snoring gently.

"Need to do everything myself around here. EIN-"

Tyrion held his hands to his ears.

"No, no, let him sleep. I'm not far from nodding off myself."

The Wolf looked at Tyrion, and nodded.

"Then the last toast of the night, to the Dragonqueen, and her victory. Skull!"

Their cups were filled by Podrick, clinked together, and emptied.

The Wolf looked to the hall, now filled with snoring men, slumped on the table or against the wall. He and Tyrion were the only ones left drinking.

"Seems we ran out of drinkers before we ran out of drink."

Tyrion looked down the hall, where empty casks were strewn about and used as pillows by the sleeping marauders.

"You mean you still have more?"

"I do. It seems I overestimated the stomach of the horse-lovers."

The Wolf shook his head, then looked at Tyrion.

"Let me give you a gift, Shield-slayer, for I have rarely met a man to match me in drinking."

Tyrion bowed his head modestly.

"The remaining barrels are yours. By my count there must be a dozen casks left over of wines from Bordeleaux and Eataine, Couronne water-of-life, kvass and mjöðr from the northern fjords, the rice-wine of the eastern islands, Kislev firewater, even some of Bugman's Best. Come to the Seafang whenever you wish, and claim them."

Tyrion only recognized some of the names from the Wolf's comments during the feast, but each had been a true delight to drink.

"Thank you, Ser Wolf. I will make good use of them."

Tyrion stepped down from his chair, his legs slightly wobbly. Podrick, who was almost asleep himself, helped him put his cloak back on. Tyrion stepped around Snorri, who looked exhausted but still industriously polished Brienne's armor.

As they left the feasting hall, festooned with passed-out marauders, servants and Dothraki, Tyrion felt rather than saw the Wolf watching them go.


	14. Chapter 6,6

The next afternoon, Tyrion woke up with the single worst headache of his life. He dragged himself to the war council, where only pointed glares from Danaerys kept him from falling asleep at the table. He was able to deliver a satisfactory report on the Wolf's intentions and the quality of his wines, and after repeatedly dousing his head in cold water, able to understand that Danaerys intended to leave the next morning.

The Wolf, for all his drinking the previous night, seemed no worse for wear, and seemed to take sadistic pleasure in rousing his men by yelling at them, addressing the cringing assembly with a voice so cheerful as to simultaneously entice and justify murder. The longhouse timbers were dismantled and converted to a floating barge to carry the battering ram within the day, and the Seafang loaded and stocked by evening.

Ravens received from Dorne confirmed that the Iron Fleet had been spotted sailing south past their coast, but the Arbor's fleet had not yet caught sight of them. Free to move through the bay unopposed, Danaerys' court began the voyage to the mainland, the Seafang at the head of the flotilla, with Drogon flying high above.

The armies of the North had established a war-camp not far from King's Landing, and the siege was laid.

Danaery's forces began blocking the main routes to the city and raiding all the supplies that hadn't been burned. Jaime Lannister had been brought along, over Tyrion's objections, and kept chained in a tent under constant armed guard. Being considered of little use in the more intellectual aspects of warfare, the Wolf's marauders could be seen mingling with the common soldiery, occasionally participating in contests of strength against men and horses.

As there was little risk of Bronn attempting to kill Tyrion in the middle of an army, the Wolf was rarely seen at the Imp's side or at Danaerys' council of war, a state of affairs greatly appreciated by all.

Every day the Wolf would instead ride up to the walls of King's Landing on the largest stallion the war camp could offer, an unending litany of insult and obscenity flowing from his lips and audible to all despite the distance, bowmen finding themselves putting down their bows and reaching for their swords, unable to strike him down from range, so enraging were his words.

He cursed out the commanders and soldiers as cowards and weaklings, theorizing on the unnatural affections their fathers held for livestock, their mothers' tenderness extending to any man but their husbands, the scorpions serving to compensate for their shrunken manhoods, and suggesting perhaps the defenders should send their women and children to fight as the menfolk lacked both the skill and the courage to defend them.

More than one enraged defender singled out in such a way had to be held back by his comrades, the Wolf's triumphant laughter ringing in their ears. Several times the soldier managed to break free, unbar a gate and throw himself screaming at the barbarian, only for the Wolf to casually decapitate his victim before crushing the severed head underhoof. One man even drew his sword and hurled himself off the battlements in his haste to close with his tormentor, giving the Wolf cause to insult their intelligence as well as their ineptitude in battle.

At last Danaerys' commanders reached a decision for the final attack. The city was deemed to have taken in as many refugees as it could, and its food reserves could only dwindle with the major roads blocked off.

Davos Seaworth would once again attack King's Landing from the sea, while the Dragonqueen's army would stand before the gates and give the city a single last chance to surrender by ringing the bells, or be slaughtered without quarter.

* * *

In the large tent at the center of Danaerys' war camp, the Dragonqueen's advisers were going over their final plans for the next day's attack when the Wolf entered, heralded as always by the inefficient protests of the sentry outside. Danaerys closed her eyes and sighed, but managed to control her first instinct to have Drogon eat him.

"Ser Wolf."

Ignoring the rest of the advisors but giving her a nod, the single mark of acknowledgement anyone could remember, the Wolf went straight to Danaerys, seemingly preoccupied.

"Ah, Dragonqueen. I have a request of you."

Danaerys looked surprised, but waited for the Wolf to justify her granting him anything. But as usual, he made no effort to do so, speaking as though her ally and not a hireling.

"Concerning the assault-"

"You are not going."

Danaerys' tone was final, though she expected the Wolf to protest. He would learn to obey her orders or she would demonstrate that his usefulness to her was at an end, and for all his claims of being a great warrior, nothing would stop her from calling to Drogon just outside the tent.

But as always, the barbarian managed to completely overthrow her plans completely without even the appearance of effort.

"Good! Don't need to ask you then."

"That was your request?"

The Wolf nodded.

"Got word that the Iron Fleet might be coming back, despite the very explicit promises I made to the Greyjoy weakling concerning his eyes and balls switching places should he show his face in these waters again. And him being one of the last men who should be left unwatched at your back, I'll take the Seafang out to sea to watch for him tomorrow. Maybe he'll turn back once he sees the city is on fire, but he'll more likely grab what he can."

Danaerys said nothing, the raven sent from Dorne having confirmed that the Iron Fleet was sailing back north. Too late to catch her at Dragonstone, still in sufficient numbers that she would be forced to wait for the Redwyne fleet's arrival to have a hope of destroying them at sea. What was Euron thinking? Had he foreseen that his fleet would be trapped in King's Landing, and so fled the bay only to return once she was away?

The Wolf knowing about this was a minor annoyance, but she was about to finally take the Iron Throne, and could afford to be magnanimous.

"Do as you intended."

The Wolf shrugged.

"Was going to anyway."

Before Danaerys could order the Wolf's head removed for his insolence, he'd cut in again.

"But about the Deathbound, and my own men, those I won't need as rowers. Are they to guard the camp on such a sword-day? Your horse-lovers especially were so looking forward to dying for you."

Danaerys hesitated. In truth, she had nearly forgotten about the Dothraki whose lives had been sold to the Wolf.

"They will join the attack."

The Wolf nodded.

"Excellent. Anything else?"

"Not unless you have any advice as to the assault tomorrow."

Despite the evident irony in her tone, the Wolf seemed to take the question entirely at face value, striding to the scale model of King's Landing and scratching his chin. When he spoke again it was with clear authority.

"Clear the walls of the bolt throwers at first opportunity, but only once you see that they're busy shooting the infantry, last thing we need is for you to lose another dragon. Start from... this tower towards the main gate. If your archers can send volleys to make them keep their heads down, so much the better, but watch that you come down just after or while the shafts are landing."

The Wolf pointed at the blocks representing the different companies of footsoldiers.

"The archers should send a signal big enough to be seen from the air, try sailcloths in different colors and patterns. Keep your dragon from roaring or they'll hear you coming, and might get off a shot or two. One lucky shot is all they need, don't give it to them. Fly down from the sun if you can, it stops them aiming properly."

There was no trace of the Wolf's usual cockiness in his voice now, only a pragmatic stating of clear and cold facts. The impression that the barbarian had not only carried out many a siege, but was clearly familiar with the use of flying creatures, was not comforting in the least.

"If the bolts are the only thing they have against you, the faster you break those the sooner you'll carry the walls. Too late to train him to bring men up to the battlements, so that's out of the question... Best to keep things simple : Clear the walls once it's safe, then the towers, keep an eye on what signals the Worm sends you."

Having said his piece with the tone of a man used to being obeyed, the Wolf turned about and was at the door of the tent when he paused.

"Oh, and cover your ears if you hear bells. It was hard enough bringing all these armies together, if one's just going to surrender it spoils everyone's fun."

Danaerys shot a glance at Tyrion, but he was staring horrified at the Wolf as he went out of sight. The barbarian's encouragement to wanton slaughter was almost as galling as his regular insulting manner, even more so thanks to his endorsement of her. His arguing for Cersei's public execution would almost have been enough to make Danaerys consider mercy. She sighed deeply.

"That's _him_ out of the way. Ser Davos, I want you to keep an eye to the sea during the attack. I don't trust him not to sneak in and try to plunder the city."

"It'll be done. Do we sink him, or..."

"Capture if you can, kill him if you can't."

* * *

That night, a small boat left Danaerys' camp and headed for King's Landing as quietly as it could.

Oars dipped silently in the water as the boat stealthily approached the walls. This late at night, there were very few torches on the walls, and a man could very well approach the walls by sea without being detected. Tyrion and Jaime exchanged one last embrace, well aware it was likely the last time they would see each other for some years if all went well.

The rowboat was lowered, and Jaime settled into it, a single sailor rowing for him. As soon as they were in the shallows, Jaime slid into the water as the sailor turned about. He took a deep breath. He was entirely alone now, and had to hope he wouldn't run into any overenthusiastic watchmen. The moonlight let him move about without stumbling. He looked curiously at a beached rowboat, even in times of war it was unheard of for a fisherman to leave his livelihood unguarded.

Jaime stealthily approached the side gate. He huddled against the wall when he heard noise behind the gate, then started silently as the door opened. His good hand went to his sword. He could not yet see who it was, but he heard a muttered conversation. Finally Jaime heard the door close and someone stepped into the moonlight, turning his head left and right.

Jaime stared in silence. The man was huge, built like the Wolf on a smaller scale, and his head was covered by a helmet covered in ridiculously impractical spikes. Exactly the kind of helmet Tyrion had described seeing on Euron Greyjoy when he'd left Blackwater Bay. What the hell was he doing here?

"Euron!"

The man started, his head snapping left and right before turning around.

"What!? Who-?"

On seeing Jaime was alone the man held his hands out in warning.

"Shut up you damn fool! They'll hear you!"

Jaime continued staring. This man was far larger than Euron, and the voice was different, clearly desperate not to be heard. Who was he?

"Who the hell are you? Why are you wearing that bastard's helmet? Answer me!"

"No- I mean, y- look, I'll just go that way and you go that way, and neither of us needs to fight."

Jamie drew his sword.

"You're not reporting anything to that prick."

"What? No, it's not-"

Jamie slashed forward, but the stranger drew his own blade, which was considerably longer.

"Come off it, Lannister, you don't want to do this! You're going to make me late!"

"Late for what, betraying the city and the queen? Or saving your own skin?"

The helmeted man looked to the walls before hissing in a low a tone as he could.

"Shut _up!_"

The stranger held his sword out, making no attempt to attack, but circling around. It seemed to Jaime the man was taking care to step softly, as if afraid of drawing the attention of the guards above.

Jaime stabbed again, striking the huge man in the chest but hearing the clink of metal. Despite being covered in a long mantle, he was wearing armor underneath.

The stranger slashed out, his blade sinking deep into Jaime's hand. Almost grateful for the golden prosthetic, Jaime struck again at the man's arm, and was rewarded by a sharp intake of breath. The man wore a breastplate but had nothing more than cloth to protect his arms.

"All right, you answer and I don't yell that there's a traitor escaping. What's an Iron Islander doing outside the walls at this hour?"

"Look, I don't have time for this."

The man lunged forward, his fist colliding with Jaime's jaw. Then he wrenched his blade free of Jaime's golden hand.

The marauder looked at Jaime's unconscious body and sighed, interrupting himself as soon as he heard the sound echoing loudly in his helmet. He grabbed Jaime and hoisted him on his shoulder with ease before setting off briskly for the water. Dragging the abandoned rowboat into the water with one hand, he dropped Jaime in and quickly rowed away.

* * *

Some time later, the man was pulling himself over the Seafang's side, Jaime's unconscious body hauled up after him.

"About time."

"Sorry, yarrl. Ran into trouble on the way back."

"You got him in safely?"

"Safe and stashed away, if anyone saw us they only saw a big man in a helmet and another in a cloak. He was starting the ritual when I left him."

"And the rest?"

The man shrugged.

"I did what I could, but they'll be able to dislodge them soon enough, especially with their lives on the line. No more than an hour or so."

"That Seaworth seems to know his trade, they'll be clear of it before then. And what's this you've brought me?"

"He attacked me, thought I was Euron."

"He did? Hm. And why did you think him of value to me?"

The man placed Jaime on the deck facedown before turning him over. He did not bother looking for light, having long since learned that his captain's senses were far sharper than any man's, nor did he hide his self-satisfaction at the Wolf's surprised exclamation.

"That's the Shield-slayer's brother! A fine catch, Akkarulf!"

The Wolf stood up.

"Gag him, bind him, and get him in the hold while I open the way. There's sword-work to be done tomorrow and we need to be back by dawn."


	15. Chapter 6,7

The sun rose over a flurry of activity in the war camp. The Dothraki and knights of the Vale inspected their horses and saddles, the Unsullied assembled into their battalions, the soldiers of Winterfell followed their lords' banners. The Wolf's Deathbound, having finally been granted the right to ride horses again, paraded triumphantly around their fellows, prominently displaying their flame-shaped tattoos. Danaerys Targaeryen mounted her dragon, took a last look at the men who would bring her victory, and took off.

Jon Snow mounted his horse and looked around him one last time. This was it, the final assault that would see the city in Danaerys' hands. The Unsullied had formed into their phalanxes, the Northern troops into their clans and house troops, the horsemen of the Vale and Essos mounted up and waiting for the signal to move out. At the forefront of the infantry the Wolf's marauders stood head and shoulders above the Westerosi, alone or in small groups, evidently enjoying the humbling effect their towering presence had on the smaller soldiers.

The Wolf was nowhere to be seen, and Jon breathed a sigh of relief. Despite his proclaimed intent of spending the day out at sea, there was no telling what the barbarian could do, and to force the giant into compliance would have been no easy task. Jon raised his sword into the air and waited a moment until he was certain the banner-bearers and trumpeters had seen him.

"Move ou-"

"WARRIORS OF THE DRAGON!"

Jon flinched as though a warhorn had been blasted next to his ear.

"THE WHORE-QUEEN CERSEI SITS ON A STOLEN THRONE!"

"THE COWARDLY SEA-SCUM EURON SAILS UNPUNISHED!"

"THE DROWNED DEAD OF DRAGONSTONE LIE UNAVENGED, THEIR BONES PICKED OVER BY CRABS!"

Jon twisted around, looking for the voice which he recognized all too well. He heard the harangue in the common tongue of Westeros, but also heard the Valyrian spoken by the Essosi and thought he recognized a few words of Dothraki.

"WILL YOU LET THIS STAND?!"

Jon looked around. Faces were growing ugly in the ranks, and several men looked furious.

"DOES THE BREAKER OF CHAINS HAVE NO FRIENDS, DOES THE TRUE QUEEN OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS HAVE NO ALLIES, DOES THE KHALEESI OF THE GRASS SEA HAVE NO WARRIORS, THAT SHE MUST TAKE BACK HER BIRTHRIGHT ALONE?"

"ARE HER DOTHRAKI SO _CRAVEN_, HER UNSULLIED SUCH _COWARDS_, HER SOLDIERS SUCH _WEAKLINGS_, HER CHILDREN SUCH _INGRATES_, THAT THEY PREFER LIFE IN BONDAGE TO A KIN-RUTTING GUTTER-SLUT, RATHER THAN DEATH IN DEFENSE OF THE STORMBORN?!"

There was a roar of outrage, but it was not directed at the speaker.

"THEN _MARCH_, WARRIORS OF THE DRAGON! SHOW THE LANNISTER BITCH, SHOW THE UNGRATEFUL WRETCHES OF KING'S LANDING, SHOW THE _WORLD_ THAT YOU ARE WORTHY OF THE SACRIFICES THE TRUE QUEEN HAS MADE IN YOUR NAME!"

"BLOOD!"

"FOR THE DRAGON QUEEN!"

**"SKULLS!"**

**"FOR THE IRON THRONE!"**

An immense clamor rose up. Every soldier in Danaerys' army marched with fevered eyes and trembling hands, eager to prove that her faith in them had not been misplaced. They had been devoted to her before, now there was no mountain of corpses too high, no lake of blood too deep, no death toll too great for their savior. Had the walls of King's Landing stood before them, they would have charged without a thought to their safety, dedicated only to killing the scum who dared defy the will of the Dragonqueen.

Jon looked worriedly about him, but there was no stopping the tide. He spurred his horse forward, catching sight for an instant of a huge figure striding towards the ships.

* * *

Danaerys' army heard Cersei's forces before they saw them as a trumpeting in the distance. Massive grey beasts in golden livery, their tusks fitted with jagged metal sleeves, hid the great Iron Gate of King's Landing behind their bulk. On either side, compact blocks of infantry bearing the standards of House Lannister and the Golden Company awaited resolutely. Harry Strickland stood by the gates, several trumpeters and banner-bearers beside him. Scorpions lined the walls, their servants occasionally making rude gestures at the attackers, but more often looking at the sky.

Jon looked over his own forces. The presence of the elephants did not seem to have unnerved his men, especially inspired as they were by the Wolf's haranguing, but he was glad of having placed the Unsullied at the front, where their experience against the beasts could turn the tide. The Wolf's marauders on the other hand seemed positively giddy, no doubt thinking of the renown bringing down such a foe would bring among their kind. Those manning the enormous battering ram pushed the carriage forward. A few archers atop the gate loosed shafts, but they only thudded against the wooden roof to no effect.

High above, Drogon flapped his wings, bobbing in place like a cork on a tranquil sea. On his back, Danaerys breathed deeply and looked below. Her army was arranged as per the plan. She looked out to the south, where the remnants of her fleet would be preparing to make their entrance, the Wolf's ship hopefully nowhere near them. They would have a hard fight against the dregs of the royal fleet, but at least the absence of the Ironborn ships had greatly evened the odds.

She frowned as she found herself looking over the battlements at the scorpions, then started as she realized that she was applying the Wolf's advice.

She shook her head. What happened here today would be of her own will, too many of her advisors having turned on her or given her ill counsel, well-intentioned as it might have been.

There was expectant silence. Danaerys heard only the flapping of Drogon's wings as she looked at the armies below. She looked at the Red Keep in the distance. Was Cersei doing the same? Did she honestly still think she could win? Or had she at last bowed to the inevitable, and had she turned tail and run? The way Tyrion had been acting lately was slightly suspicious, but there would be time to question him later.

In the quiet, there was suddenly a clanging, metallic sound. Startled, Danaerys looked down as the sound grew louder and more urgent, then smiled as relief washed over her. The city's bells were ringing, the sound growing in intensity. Cersei had at last seen sense, or perhaps the citizens had finally refused to submit to her madness any longer. Whispering to Drogon, she slowly started her descent. She would walk into the city on foot, all the better to see the gratitude of the citizens she had spared.

* * *

Far away and high above, two pairs of eyes watched with great interest from the prow of a flying longship. Akkarulf could barely make out Drogon going lower, when the Wolf let out a snarl, pounding on the Seafang's gunwale.

"The green pox take the bastard, what's he doing?!"

* * *

On the ground, the soldiers looked at each other, disappointment audible among Danaerys' army, especially among the Wolf's marauders. Grey Worm's expression was unreadable as ever.

Harry Strickland, unsure of what to do until formal orders had been given, called for his men to hold their positions while the Lannister soldiers exchanged uncertain looks.

So it was that Danaerys was looking at the roof of the Red Keep when it flashed into fire, the thunderous sound audible from outside the city. The soldiers on the battlements gasped and pointed at it. From the ground, neither army could see what was happening, but from the agitation on the walls they could tell something was wrong.

A sphere of crackling light shot out from the keep, faster than any arrow. It soared over the city, cleared the battlements, and then circled around Drogo to strike Danaerys in the chest. She screamed. Drogo bellowed and plunged forward, maw gaping wide.

* * *

On the Seafang, the Wolf howled in exultation.

"YES! Keep at it, Dragonqueen, you're almost there!"

The Wolf shouted an order, and the oarmen started pulling, the longship moving forwards. Akkarulf took up his bow and stood with his back to the mast.

* * *

Swooping so low over the battlements that a scorpion was pushed over the side by the whipping of his tail, Drogon powered through the air to the Red Tower and unleashed a blast of fire that annihilated not just the roof but several floors. The dragon screamed in triumph, then in agony as a scorpion's bolt from the eastern walls tore through his left wing. Without any prompting, Drogon surged forward.

The scorpion's men had no time to savor their victory before Drogon was on them. One screamed as sword-sized teeth closed on him, the others hurled off the battlements by leathery wings.

Danaerys pushed herself up Drogon's neck. Her eyes were wild, her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Everything seemed enveloped in mist, except where Drogon's breath had disintegrated the stonework. Her throat dry, she pushed out a single word.

"_Dracarys_."

Screeching in fury, the dragon lifted off.

* * *

Outside the gates, Grey Worm showed no hesitation. The Lannister queen had attempted to murder Danaerys through foul sorcery after feigning surrender. Now not even a direct order from Danaerys herself could have stopped him.

"CHARGE!"

"No, they've surr-"

Jon's reply was lost in the clamor. Danaerys' army surged forward, all thoughts of discipline forgotten as they ran to the slaughter. The panicked Lannister soldiers fell back, but taken completely unawares by their queen's treachery, many were massacred where they stood.

Harry Strickland cursed and yelled at his trumpeters.

"Golden Company! Hold ranks! Elephants, charge!"

A horn sounded, quickly echoed by the trumpeting of the war elephants. The beasts lumbered forwards, archers mounted on their backs loosing death at any target they could find. The charging Dothraki were swept aside, horse and man alike sent flying by swinging tusks or pillar-like legs.

The Unsullied quickly rallied under Grey Worm's command, and held fast in close ranks, their long spears giving the beasts pause. But where an elephant managed to check its charge in the face of the spears, the archers in the howdah simply shot into the immobile phalanxes.

Atop the walls, the scorpions began loosing their deadly projectiles, but they did not fire as fast as they could have, each crew torn between killing a target on the ground and being caught defenseless should the dragon attack them.

Some of the Wolf's Deathbound succeeded in circling around one of the elephants and hacking away at its legs, and paid for their success with heavy losses. The maddened beast trumpeted and charged, unresponsive to the shouts of its driver, and had plowed halfway through an Unsullied phalanx before it fell over, crushing another dozen eunuchs beneath it. The archers of the Golden Company were dragged from the wreckage and mercilessly butchered.

The creaking carriage of the Wolf's battering ram had nearly made it to the Iron Gate, its roof nearly invisible under the mass of arrows covering it, when an all-too-familiar roar was heard. Strickland turned around and caught sight of the massive gate buckling before the entire construction blew apart, replaced by the heat of a forest fire. He was only dimly aware of a sudden searing pain before his vision darkened.

Drogon did not stop, but wheeled about and flew straight along the wall, his breath incinerating scorpions and soldiers alike.

The marauders pushing the ram immediately abandoned their now-useless load and launched themselves into battle with horrifying glee, cutting down Lannister soldiers regardless of whether they were surrendering or fighting back. Grey Worm saw the barbarians entering the open gate. He shouted an order, and the Unsullied abandoned their phalanxes to follow him into the breach.

Still dazed, Jon got up and was taken along with the flow.


	16. Chapter 6,8

Danaerys screamed in primal fury as a walltower crumbled beneath Drogon's breath. Through the hellish haze the buildings were warped and distorted, and in the rising smoke she saw the mocking, jeering faces of her every enemy, every man and woman who had ever wronged her, ever belittled her, ever hurt her, ever abandoned her, ever betrayed her. Cersei, Varys, the Night King, the Wolf, Vyserys, Euron, Jon, the khals, Robert Baratheon, the slavers of Mereen, Miiri.

They would scream, they would _burn_, and she would enjoy every second of it.

The dragon settled on a small turret of a building inside the city and bellowed. Tiles fell from under the dragon's claws and into the packed street below, the citizens frozen at the horrific sight.

A sound then seemed to fill the world, beating in Danaerys' mind with the force of a hammer. Though she jerked and Drogon squealed, the sound continued. Only when she had made Drogon lift off and fly away did it fade. Shaking her head, the faces of her tormentors surrounding her again, she pushed forward.

In the belltower where Drogon had landed, the desperate bellringers shared an incredulous look, and started ringing the bells louder. In the streets below, a hooded man pointed at the belltower, shouting over the clanging.

"Dragon-witch fears bells! Ring them loud! Tell others!"

The panicked citizens ran, some into the ringing tower, some to spread the word, others still looting abandoned stores.

The man who had called out turned into an alleyway. There was a flash of purple, and he was no longer there.

* * *

As Danaerys' fleet advanced, the soldiers manning the catapult closest to the winch towers noticed that their comrades remained inactive, the great chain blocking the mouth of the Blackwater still underwater despite the approaching danger. Finally one ran inside to wake them up.

He emerged seconds later, vomiting profusely.

His squadmates ran to help him, and saw their fellows had been brutally murdered in the night, their corpses mutilated further by being shoved into the massive windlass, the gears sticky with dried gore, every lever and handle snapped off.

There was nothing they could do to remove them or restore the mechanism to close off the river, and Davos led the flotilla upriver to attack the River Gate unimpeded.

* * *

The city streets were a blood-slicked nightmare. Unsullied impaled screaming men and women on their pikes, Dothraki trampled soldier and civilian alike beneath their hooves, and soldiers emerged from shops and houses with reddened blades.

Jon saw a woman scream as a soldier pushed her down, fumbling to pull down his trousers. Running to her side, he shoved the soldier off and started as he saw the sigil of Winterfell. The soldier drew his blade, and Jon slew the man by reflex.

There was a bellow as of an enormous bull. A woman dragging two small children fled out of an alleyway. One of the Wolf's marauders emerged behind them, his axe dripping with blood. In a single lunge, the huge man cleaved through the girls and their mother. A Deathbound bloodrider who had been about to spear them goggled in surprise, then gurgled as the madman smashed his weapon through rider and horse.

There was utter chaos as Danaerys' forces realized the berserker no longer held allegiance to any side but his own.

A Winterfell spearman found his face enclosed in the marauder's grip, then his skull shattered against a stone wall. Two Unsullied left off butchering a woman and her screaming children and tried to flank the madman, but their weapons bounced off his armor. Burying his axe in one's face, he turned on the other. Fearless as his mutilation had made him, the eunuch screamed as the marauder smashed both fists into his head, gore spurting from his eyes and mouth.

The berserker pulled his axe out and held it aloft, roaring in an unmistakable gesture of challenge, swinging his head left and right. His face was locked in an expression of murderous frenzy, snapping to the family the Unsullied had been about to skewer. He took a step forwards when Jon moved between them, sword drawn, and threw himself at the marauder.

The Wolf's man snarled as the sword met his axe, cleaving a notch from its head. He struck out again, nearly jolting the sword from Jon's hands. Jon thrust forwards, puncturing the marauder's breastplate, but the madman showed no reaction save fury.

Jon circled back. No other soldier seemed to want to intervene. A marauder with a broken nose was on the scene as well, carrying a lumpy sack and a viciously barbed harpoon. But where the others were staring in fear, the man's eyes were calm, looking disinterestedly at the duel.

The light dimmed for an instant as Drogon passed over the scene, entirely unnoticed. The sound of bells grew louder in the distance.

Jon noticed a bruise on the marauder's left arm, as though it had recently been injured and not given time to heal. Grabbing the hilt in both hands, he swung at the madman's arm, which spurted blood and fluids as the Valyrian steel carved halfway through it, exposing bone. But the marauder ignored the injury, driving his other elbow into Jon's cheek. Jon was unable to stop himself yelping, but leaped back, the sword blocking another savage swipe from the axe.

The marauder bulled into Jon, slamming him into an abandoned storefront. The axe rose into the air, but bit into the eaves above as it came down. Jon sidestepped and jumped back to the open street as the madman grabbed his weapon with both hands and heaved, despite the flow of blood spurting from his injury.

The axe came down, as did the eaves. The marauder turned, heedless of the timber crashing on his shoulders, and hurled himself at his foe.

**"CORN!"**

Jon had no time to ponder the madman's words before the marauder's axe swung low. Jon leaped back again, but his foot slipped on the uneven cobblestones and he fell on his back. The marauder was on him in an instant, dropping his knee into Jon's stomach and grabbing his face in his free hand, forcing it into the stones again and again.

Scrabbling for his sword, Jon's hand closed on the hilt, and swung in desperation. A blow to the head that would have made a man a drooling idiot for life had no effect on the madman, who only snarled louder and redoubled his efforts to smash Jon's head open.

Even as his head was rammed into the cobblestones again, Jon turned the sword around, the blade now resting against the marauder's neck. With a final effort, in spite of the splitting pain at the back of his skull and the spots in his vision, he pushed upwards.

The Valyrian steel cleaved through skin, flesh, gristle and bone. The berserker's arm trembled and his grip finally loosened, the headless body collapsing on Jon.

Panting and swiping blood from his eyes, Jon stood up, shoving the marauder's corpse off himself. The citizens had fled, ignored by the soldiery as they watched the duel. Danaerys's surviving troops stared at Jon with awe before scurrying away to find easier targets, but he had eyes only for the broken-nosed marauder, still carrying a sack of plunder. The barbarian met his gaze, then looked at the corpse, and nodded.

The madman's head had rolled until it ran into a wall. The broken-nosed marauder picked it up and placed it in his sack without a word. A Winterfell soldier, the only bystander remaining, approached the corpse and started to undo the straps keeping the marauder's armor on.

As soon as the breastplate had been wrenched off the berserker's corpse, the marauder rammed his harpoon through the soldier, taking his fellow's axe and armor and putting it in his sack. Then he pulled the harpoon from his screaming victim, turned around and left, as though he had lost all interest in the scene.

Still carrying his sword, Jon looked around helplessly. A vast shadow blotted out the sun as Drogon passed over again with a scream. He saw movement through a broken window. A tiny boy, his face horrified, peeped out and withdrew his head when he saw Jon looking at him. Jon went to the window.

"Come wifhl-"

He spat blood and tried again. The boy's parents were looking at him now, their faces just as terrified.

"Come with me, I'll take you to safety."

Progress was slow at first, as Jon had to kill several looters and rapists, but the growing crowd of refugees took up weapons from the dead and managed to call out to neighbors and relatives all the way to the River Gate. There Danaerys' fleet had made its landing and established a beachhead, the crews prevented from joining in the pillaging thanks to Davos Seaworth.

A plume of multicolored smoke flared up from the decapitated Red Keep.


	17. Chapter 6,9

In the Red Keep, Sandor Clegane watched Arya disappear outside. Preventing her from killing Cersei and then having nothing to live for afterwards was his first good act of the day, and he intended to perform a similar service to the world soon after. Despite the screams outside and having to dodge the occasional collapsing ceiling or piece of crumbling masonry, he felt almost light-hearted for the first time in years. At last his brother would pay.

Pausing only to grab a panicked servant and demand to know where Cersei was last seen, he released the terrified woman and walked resolutely onwards and upwards.

* * *

"This way, your grace."

On the stairway leading down from the ruined tower of the Red Keep, Qyburn, Cersei, and the pitiful remains of the Queensguard stopped as Drogon passed by overhead. Another tremor shook the tower, blocks of stone crashing to the stairs below. Several Queensguard fell, their skulls crushed, while Cersei and Qyburn cowered under the Mountain, who ignored the debris falling on its back as if they were only grains of sand. The shaking stopped, and the group resumed their progress. Then a silhouette appeared on the stairs beneath.

Sandor emerged into the soot-choked light, his gaze fixed on the Mountain. He performed the tiniest of bows.

"Yer grace."

The remaining Queensguard drew their swords and attacked. Sandor slew them with barely a thought, still staring at the target of his hatred.

"Hello big brother."

The Mountain took a step forward.

"Ser Gregor, stay by my side!"

Panic filled Cersei's voice. The Mountain turned its head towards her, glaring through bloodshot eyes and took another step down.

"Ser Gregor I _command_ you!"

"Obey your queen, Ser Gregor!"

Qyburn's firm tone of voice was exactly what the Mountain needed to go over the edge. It stepped towards its creator, and suddenly stopped.

Even with the raging inferno outside, the faint but increasingly loud ringing of bells and the occasional dragon's roar, they could all hear the sounds of thudding footsteps coming down the stairs. Cersei shot a glance at the others, but they looked equally surprised. Thus all eyes were on the giant in skull-covered armor as he came into view, bigger even than the Mountain, filling the staircase with his bulk.

Cersei stumbled back against the wall, her memory of Tyrion's trial surfacing unbidden. The monster armed in black had destroyed Gregor, allowing Tyrion to escape death and murder their father, and only through Qyburn's sorceries had her champion been restored to a semblance of life. And now he stood before her again.

She trembled convulsively as the giant approached, two silhouettes standing behind him, then her jaw gaped as the Wolf ignored her utterly. He stopped and spoke in a resonant tone, as a herald might relay a king's order.

"Qyburn. Ex-Maester of the Citadel, Master of Whisperers, Hand of the Slut-Queen. I am called the Wolf. Today you die."

Cersei stared. She recognized the voice as the one that had goaded her into murdering the hostages at Danaerys' last attempt at parley. The Wolf's expression became irritated, and he sighed heavily.

"Not again... Am I condemned to face weaklings every time I seek to honor the gods?"

The Wolf looked disappointedly at Qyburn, who looked back at the Mountain and stepped back towards the wall. He saw only one way out.

"Ser Gregor, kill this man!"

The Mountain moved, but towards Qyburn, fist drawn back, clearly intending to punch its creator's head off. The Wolf's arm lashed out and dragged the Maester to him, Cersei feeling the wind of its passage on her face.

"Piss off, you underfed weasel, this one's mine!"

The Wolf's lip curled.

"And take a good long bath or five while you're at it. I've been near orc latrines that smelled fresher than you."

Turning back to Qyburn, he lifted the Maester in the air with one hand, eyeing him critically. Below them, Sandor took a step upwards. The Mountain turned to face him.

"Stop _struggling_, whelp, or you'll be dead with only one arm. And you with not even a dagger. Is this weak and feeble appearance only a lure that has brought your enemies to ruin, fleshcrafter? Does your blood burn like fire when spilled, or can you spit venom when cornered?"

As if in a dream, Cersei stepped daintily around the Mountain and went downwards, neither Clegane making a move to stop her, glaring hatefully at each other. She was already out of sight when the Wolf called out without taking his eyes off Qyburn.

"Sven? Akkarulf?"

Two men emerged from the stairs above and immediately headed downstairs, one an aged man in slightly singed furs, and the other a hulking warrior in metal armor. Sandor barely paid them any heed, and they ignored him in turn.

The Wolf turned, as though noticing Sandor for the first time.

"Oh, you're here."

Sandor's gaze stayed fixed on the Mountain.

"Told you you'd missed him."

"Eh?"

"Told you you hadn't killed him."

Sandor climbed a few steps further. The Mountain turned, and drew its sword.

Still held in the Wolf's iron grip, Qyburn saw him frown.

"Didn't kill..."

Recognition dawned on the Wolf's face.

"_Molehill?_"

The Wolf whistled and snapped his fingers, as if summoning a dog. The Mountain spun around.

"It _is_ you, Molehill! Why are you up and about when I removed your head? Very bad idea to be moving around after so crippling an injury, you sure you don't want to sit down and wait until you feel better? Or perhaps, given how little you used your brain, it was less of a loss for you than for ordinary men?"

The Wolf sniffed.

"You were already a halfwit when last I saw you, now I see you've forgotten how to wash yourself. Or rather... Hound! You've known this ugly dogspawn longer than I have, did this waste of good armor ever learn to pull down his breeches before taking a piss?"

"Shut it, Wolf! He's mine."

The Wolf sounded surprised.

"Oh?"

The giant turned his head from one to the other, then shrugged.

"Very well, then. Who am I to meddle in family affairs."

The Wolf fell silent as the brothers crossed swords. Qyburn dared to look up, and saw an expression of intense interest on the Wolf, as of a gambler watching a prizefight.

The Hound struck, and the Mountain's helm flew off. The Wolf gave a shout of approval which both Cleganes ignored. Sandor stared in contempt.

"Yeah. That's you."

Underneath the helm was a maggot-pale face, wobbly and hairless, covered in necrotic patches. The Mountain blinked bloodshot eyes, but its face had no more expression than a statue.

"That's what you've _always_ been."

The Clegane brothers rushed at each other again, chips of stone flying as their swords crashed into the walls and stairs.

"So he _did_ grow a head back. Walking and fighting despite his skull being at my belt all this time... I take it this is your work, necromancer?"

Qyburn tried to nod, uncertain as what the answer would bring. Would this lunatic call him an aberration against the laws of man and nature, as those fools at the Citadel had done, unable to see past their ossified ritual and useless gathering of knowledge already acquired?

"What of his heart? You give him a new one too?"

"In a manner of speaking, there were-"

"Well this changes a lot of things."

The Wolf moved his arm up, staring Qyburn full in the face.

"Now, Qyburn, ex-Maester of the Citadel, Master of Whisperers, Hand of the soon-to-be former, still a slut, Queen. Your life, and the manner of your death, lies solely with me."

"Either you die at my hands, slowly, by bits and pieces, or you renounce your mistress and serve me."

Qyburn winced, but nodded as much as he could with the Wolf's fist around his neck.

"Don't answer before you know what I'm asking of you."

The Wolf looked down at the progression of the duel.

Sandor grabbed the Mountain's arm and swung himself around, driving the blade deep into his brother's body with a grunt. The blade now protruded from the Mountain's back, yet still it showed no emotion, only throwing Sandor down the steps. The Wolf nodded, smirking with satisfaction, and turned his head back to Qyburn.

"Choose your next words with _exceptional_ care, fleshcrafter. You brought a corpse to some semblance of life and intelligence. Can you do it again?"

Qyburn blinked rapidly.

"Er, certainly! I used a pump to compensate for the heart until a replacement could be put in, while the maturation process is accelerated by careful dosage of certain venoms obtained from Q-"

The Wolf's face was closed again, his tone still dangerously neutral.

"I don't care _how_ you did it, corpse-monger. I am a warrior, not a student of sorcery, I tolerate it only as long as it serves my needs. Now. Can you do it, again?"

Qyburn hastily stopped himself from replying, before considering his answer carefully. Immediate and unconditional assurance might save him at the moment, but doom him in the long run.

"It depends on the... the freshness of the corpse, on the subject's vitality, whether-"

"That'll do."

The Wolf grinned. Any benevolence it might have expressed was cancelled by the rows of sharp fangs thus revealed.

"You'll have a hard time finding a cooler body than the one I have in mind. Now if you'll excuse me..."

The Wolf lowered Qyburn to the ground and went down the steps. Qyburn hesitated, then followed him. However the barbarian had managed to scale the tower walls, the Maester would be incapable of such a feat.

"I don't want to miss this."

The Mountain had pulled the blade from its own midsection, then pulled off its armor to reveal skin as pale and diseased as its face.

Throwing away the sword, the Mountain descended, singlemindedly concentrated on its brother. The Wolf followed at a good distance, saying nothing but taking in the scene with visible interest.

* * *

Broken laughter forced its way out of Sandor's throat once he stopped rolling down the stairs. How could he of all people have imagined he stood a chance against the monster that was his brother?

The Mountain continued its descent, kicking and punching Sandor until he came to a small landing, followed by the Wolf, who made no move to intervene.

There it grabbed Sandor, and lifting him against the wall, brought its fist down on his head again and again. Despite the ringing in his ears and the sunbursts in his eyes, Sandor managed to grab his dagger, and started stabbing the Mountain everywhere he could reach.

"Fucking DIE!"

The blade sank to the hilt in the Mountain's bare flesh every time, but it no more reacted than if a fly had landed on it.

The Mountain grabbed hold of its brother's face, putting its thumbs to his eyes. Sandor screamed as something squirted out of his left eye, but he groped around his brother's face, and shoved the dagger into the Mountain's own left eye and out the back of its skull. The Mountain, its face still entirely devoid of expression, fell back.

"Ha! Good one, Hound!"

The Mountain stumbled into the wall behind it, but already it raised a hand to the dagger, starting to pull out the blade with a wet sucking sound.

Sandor blinked. To his surprise, his right eye still worked. And now, seeing how fragile the wall behind the Mountain looked, he gathered himself up for one last effort that would free the world of the Cleganes... and the Wolf stepped onto the landing between them.

"And I do believe it's my turn now."

Sandor tried to say something, but fell back against the wall, utterly spent.

"You had your chance, warrior. The Crow God demands his prize, and will not be denied... again."

Sandor gave one last effort, but could only scratch at the rubble before collapsing. His one remaining eye closed, the extraordinary vitality that had kept him alive through years of battle failed him at last, and he did not hear the Wolf's words before sleep claimed him.

"See to his wounds, fleshcrafter. Fighting men of any worth are too rare in this world to be allowed to succumb to their injuries."

The Wolf turned to face the Mountain, now back on its feet, and spread his arms in a parody of welcome.

"Molehill! I'd be lying if I said I was glad to see you again. When I make your head an offering to the Skull Throne, it's very rude of you to grow back another one, even taking your natural crassness and utter lack of social graces into account."

"A shame you couldn't grow a spine along with a head, but I suppose with a skull that thick there wasn't enough bone for both."

The Mountain stopped trying to remove the dagger from its skull as the Wolf continued talking, its remaining bloodshot eye twitching. Qyburn stared with wide eyes even as he applied his treatment to Sandor. Could Gregor's memories of his own death have been restored? Which of the alchemical processes had caused it? Desperately he looked for a scrap of parchment with which to take notes.

"I won't ask you how you've been doing, I frankly do not care, but I _would_ be interested in knowing if you've managed to kill anything more impressive than a horse, a woman, and newborn babes since we last met. There needs to be some challenge in the sacrifices I offer to the gods. Otherwise it'd be your master's guts I'd be cleaning off my sword."

The Mountain opened its mouth as if to respond, and only a low grunt came out. The Wolf snickered.

"So either you haven't managed to kill anything of note since, which would not surprise me, or you've forgotten how to speak. Which also would not surprise me."

"Your bark was already worse than your bite, and now you can't bark at all. Have your teeth all fallen out too? A dog with no teeth, no voice and the mange, much like the bitch you work for! Did she give you the pox your skin is blighted with, or did it come from playing with yourself in the dark too often?"

The Mountain lurched forward, throwing itself forward with surprising speed, the Wolf turning like a pikeman holding fast against a cavalry charge. The Mountain impaled itself on the Wolf's spiked pauldron, skulls shattering and breaking under the impact. Even prepared for the blow, the Wolf stumbled a few steps back, nearly stepping on Sandor. Qyburn hurriedly scrambled out of the way.

The Mountain pulled away, long strings of black and sticky gore stretching between the sucking wound on its chest and the Wolf's armor.

"By the Raven's cloaca, Molehill, I'll thank you not to get my armor dirty! Just being in your presence is enough to corrode it, don't go staining it with whatever it is you use for blood these days. Some of us are used to looking respectable, you know."

The Mountain charged again, but this time the Wolf waited in a wrestler's crouch, and used the monster's momentum to pivot and shove it headfirst down the stairs. Masonry crumbled as it fell, the dagger slamming back through the Mountain's skull.

The Wolf looked down the stairs, then unsheathed another of his enormous swords.

"Heads up, Molehill! Catch it with the right end, if you still remember which one that is!"

The Wolf brought his arm up and hurled the sword down the stairwell. There was a sound of metal piercing flesh from below. The giant sighed.

"The next time you bring one back, necromancer, give it the brains it lacked in life. A rat would do... or a turnip."

The Wolf turned his head towards the stairs.

"I said the _right_ end, Molehill! That is to say, the one that _isn't_ sharp! I didn't think it possible, but here we are: you are in fact as stupid as you are ugly, and you _look_ so ugly I'll wager that on seeing you emerge, the midwife slapped your mother instead!"

There was a thudding noise. The Mountain reappeared, the Wolf's discarded sword in hand and a fresh wound along its side.

"Ah, good, my teachings are paying off. There's hope for you yet, lard-gut, maybe I can even get you to understand that a sword is kept in a sheath and not inside your belly!"

The Mountain advanced, sword held low. The Wolf drew another of his swords, and lunged at the Mountain, two thrusts scoring deep wounds in quick succession in the Mountain's arm and chest. But it showed no reaction, swinging and pushing the Wolf back. Qyburn watched in horrified fascination, the Wolf's strikes digging deep yet seeming to deal no damage to the Mountain.

The Wolf grabbed the Mountain's face and squeezed. Black rivulets spurted between his armored fingers and dripped down to the stone steps, where they fizzed and bubbled. The Wolf's eyes darted down.

"You haven't washed in a while, Molehill. Even _dogs _know how to lick themselves clean... or was your cock simply too short for your tongue to reach?"

With a fierce cry, the Wolf thrust his sword to the hilt into the Mountain's gut. The Mountain swung its arm in a short arc, driving the Wolf back and continuing to advance, the embedded sword wobbling as it moved, but still the Mountain remained expressionless. Even when the Wolf swung his free hand, backhanding the embedded dagger deeper into the Mountain's head, there was no reaction.

Qyburn's eyes darted to the Wolf, but the barbarian merely grinned as he drew another sword.

"So you _are_ worthy of my blade after all! That's good to know, I was afraid you were wasting my time... well, moreso than you are now."

The Wolf's sword lashed out, but the Mountain made no attempt to dodge, only swinging its sword horizontally. The Wolf looked down. Qyburn saw him look astonished as the Mountain's weapon was embedded in the armor covering the barbarian's upper arm.

"Finally, progress!"

Reversing his grip on his sword, the Wolf raised his arm high and plunged the sword into the Mountain's shoulder. The point punched through the small of the Mountain's back, but it did not make a sound. The Wolf looked the Mountain in its remaining eye.

"You know, Molehill, I have to admit I'm impressed. Not many men I've know could handle being stabbed with two swords at once... Perhaps your master trained you by having you impaled by randy stallions, or was that already something you were used to doing in life? Is it a a habit you learned from your mother?"

The Mountain's free hand curled into a fist and crashed into the Wolf's head.


	18. Chapter 6,10

Cersei crossed the empty halls and chambers of the Red Keep, entering a small courtyard. Her mind was fixated solely on finding a place to hide in the cellars where she and her child could wait out the siege in safety. Then she would leave, find Jaime, and together they would find allies, stronger ones, who would not cave to the dragon-bitch like the people of King's Landing, who cowered in their homes and opened the gates to the invaders. Those who survived Danaerys' rampage, the traitors who had failed her, she would put to the torch herself.

For an instant she thought of Ellaria, whose cell she would come across in her flight and might recognize Cersei even in her half-mad state. Then a wall of fire erupted in the arcades before her and she screamed, stumbling back. But this was no ordinary fire, burning blue and gold and purple. She heard the dragon roar, but it was far too faint to have caused this. She also heard muted screaming that seemed to come from the flames themselves.

Cersei turned around. Two men stood in the doorway she had just exited, one a hulking warrior in metal armor and the horned helmet she had last seen in Euron's possession, the other an old man wearing wolf skins and bearing a long staff with a dead bird on top.

The old one waved his staff, and another wall of fire flared into existence to her left and right. The heat was already intense, yet the walls did not blacken or crumble.

The warrior moved towards her, arms extended. Hope flared up in her chest as she thought Euron had returned, but died as he grabbed her around the waist, as the little she could see of his face and his size made the difference obvious.

"You're not Euron!"

"I'm very glad to say I'm not."

The warrior hoisted her onto his shoulder like a sack of cabbages and turned around. Cersei's fists pattered against his back, but it might as well have been rain for all that he reacted.

"See anything worth taking?"

The sorcerer waved his staff again. Cersei felt the heat die almost immediately as the walls of flame vanished into nothingness, leaving behind only a strip of twisted stone between the arches.

"No take. We go now, Jarl Strong Wolf not want us take too long."

"Up all those stairs, and with this useless weight..."

The marauder gave his charge a shake.

"Bet you he hasn't finished the big bastard by the time we get back?"

"Faster ways lose coin. Like bet throw rock in air, rock not come down."

"I've known people who'd take that bet."

The marauders turned around and started the long climb up the stairway.

* * *

The Mountain struck, shearing a deformed skull hanging from the Wolf's shoulder.

The Wolf looked entirely indifferent, his voice flat and bored as he pulled back from the Mountain, jabbing his sword in the Mountain's arms or chest only to pull it back. The swords' points were beginning to smoke.

"You know, Molehill, I've been thinking. For both of us, since you are now even less capable of doing so than in life."

The Mountain's blade dug deep into a stone windowsill as the Wolf deftly sidestepped the blow.

"I'm starting to think you don't _like_ the name Molehill, despite it being appropriate for something small, immobile and turd-colored, only capable of killing a man if he trips over you... what do you say to "little bitch"? Bark once if you disagree."

The Mountain swung its arm, nearly forcing the Wolf's sword out of his hands before wrenching its increasingly-battered blade out of the stonework.

"No? You don't like "little bitch" either? You _are_ a picky one."

"How about "lapdog"? Is that better? Or something more descriptive, like "hairless half-maggot"? That's more accurate, hardly any man could be said to look more limp and wormlike than you!"

The Mountain advanced ponderously, sword swinging hard and cleaving through the steel of the Wolf's armor. Even with two swords piercing clear through its body, the Mountain showed no sign of relenting. Already the Wolf's armor bore several rents and gashes.

Qyburn felt movement under his fingers. To his shock, the Hound had regained consciousness, his one eye open wide and staring at the Mountain.

The Wolf gripped the point of his sword in his armored hand, smashing the hilt into the Mountain's mouth. Teeth flew to the ground, yellowed and smoking.

"Oh don't worry, Molehill, you don't need those. Teeth are for those who need real food, not decrepit corpse-suckers like you!"

The Mountain punched out, striking the Wolf full in the face. The barbarian fell back to the wall. The monster took a step forward, but the Wolf crouched, grabbing the Mountain's ankles.

With a roar of effort, the Wolf lifted himself up, pulling the Mountain's feet with him. The monster keeled over backwards, flagstones shattering under its weight, the swords embedded within it snapping off. The Wolf released his grip, dropped one knee on the Mountain's chest and gripped the dagger's handle, twisting the monster's head to the side and pushing it down with his free hand. He pulled hard, freeing the blade at last, then jammed two fingers into the empty socket, keeping the Mountain's head down.

"Much better, now I can kill you without having to see your face!"

The Wolf looked at Sandor's dagger. The blade was chipped and broken from the abuse it had been through. Even as the Mountain struggled to free itself, the Wolf applied the blade to his foe's throat and started sawing.

"Grunt _louder_, Molehill! I would have the Plaguefather know his dull-witted farmhand will arrive to tend his garden shortly! Nothing marked by the gods can escape."

Qyburn gripped the wall and lost the remains of his breakfast as a horrible smell of rotting meat and bile struck him. The Cleganes' eyes met and did not leave each other.

The Wolf's efforts continued despite the Mountain's increasingly desperate flailing. One fist caught the Wolf square in the jaw, and he spat blood down in his victim's cheek.

"You think if swords don't work, fists will? Other way around, Molehill, small wonder you only ever killed vermin and weaklings!"

At last there was a flood of black and red fluids as the Wolf's battered blade sawed through the Mountain's throat. He did not stop then, still weighing down on the Mountain's head as he hacked through bone and sinew.

Even as Sandor fought to stay conscious, even as a black veil descended upon his vision, he still saw the moment when the dagger clinked against stone, saw his brother's eye became unfocused, and the Wolf separating the Mountain's head from its neck. Then the veil fell completely and he surrendered himself to whatever came next, feeling as though an immense weight had left his chest.

"Hold your breath, necromancer. He's going to stink even worse very shortly."

The Wolf plunged his sword deep into the Mountain's guts and pushed it further in, slicing the exposed abdomen open. The smell did indeed get worse. Qyburn winced as he recalled the difficulty he'd had in mending bone and flesh together the first time around, even with his most potent magics to aid him. The Wolf muttered something, even as he ripped the Mountain's latest heart out. He looked curiously at it.

"What'd you put in him, necromancer? Bull or bear?"

Qyburn was about to respond that it was neither, but the Wolf did not seem interested in the slightest. He picked up the Mountain's head.

"At last..."

The Wolf triumphantly held the severed head aloft, even as blood and viscous black fluids still pumping from its ragged wounds. The stone below fizzled as it came into contact with the transformed blood.

"Ah, poor Molehill, I can't say he fought well."

Moments passed, Qyburn casting fearful glances at his new master, who was now looking at the head with a puzzled air.

"Strange... what else do they require?"

The Wolf looked at Sandor.

"How is he?"

Qyburn looked at the sleeping Sandor. Strangely, his battered and scarred face looked more peaceful than Qyburn had ever seen.

"I have stopped the bleeding, and his state should be stable now, my lord, but I could do more for him in my laboratory, if-"

"No time. His fate is in the hands of the gods now."

Qyburn, who had much to say on the role of gods in saving lives, judged it more prudent to remain silent.

Noise came from below. Sven and Akkarulf ascended to the landing, still carrying the struggling Cersei on his shoulder. Qyburn avoided looking at her.

"Just in time."

The marauders started climbing the stairs, when Qyburn spoke up in a hesitant voice.

"Er... my lord Wolf..."

Sven gave the man a surprised look, while the Wolf turned, looking distinctly impatient.

"I could serve you better if I had Ser Gregor's corpse at hand. Certain rare minerals and reagents essential to the process are embedded within him, and there were certain functions I was in the middle of test-"

"Sven, send down Knut, Snorri, Geirr and Slissnarr. Tell them to bring a spare sail."

The sorcerer nodded and ran up the stairs, followed by Akkarulf. Qyburn stared, wondering how many others the Wolf had somehow brought to the top of the tower, and why they would have sails with them. Were they planning to arrest their fall by using sails as immense wings, as he had sometimes contemplated during his time at the Citadel?

As she was carried past Qyburn, Cersei spat invectives at the faithless Maester, ceasing only when the Wolf grabbed her jaw, Akkarulf pausing mid-step as soon as he felt his charge anchored.

"That's a very pretty mouth you have there, whore-queen. Loud, too. Do you think you can keep it shut or shall I ask my crew to find something they can plug it with?"

Cersei fell silent, her eyes wide and terrified. The Wolf released her and turned his attention back to the Mountain, where Qyburn was collecting fluids in a glass vial. Akkarulf continued upwards.

The Wolf pushed a steel hook chained to his armor through the back of the Mountain's head just as a group of marauders descended, carrying a folded and waxed sailcloth between them. The corpse was dragged onto the makeshift tarp while the Wolf pushed Qyburn forward.

"Wrap it tight, I'm not having that bastard stink up my ship. It was bad enough having the Crow Brothers aboard."

After Qyburn had wrapped his creation in the waterproofed cloth, it was manhandled up the winding staircase, accompanied by words he did not understand but took as heartfelt cursing at the Mountain's weight, even deprived of its head, armor, and intestines. He followed his new master up the winding stair, unsure of how they planned to escape or get the corpse onto a ship.

At times the Wolf would hold out his hand, and progress halted as Drogon careened by. They noted the dragon's progress would occasionally be checked as if his rider had ordered him to fly in a different direction, which Qyburn noted caused the Wolf to frown. The sound of bells grew louder.

Finally the group reached the last intact floor of the keep. Hovering a few feet above the charred floor and the piles of rubble was an enormous longship, its prow carved into a snarling dragon's head. To Qyburn's horror, the figurehead actually turned to look at him. The Wolf gave the ship's hull a sharp slap as he passed it by, and the wooden head turned away.

The Wolf barked out several orders in a guttural language, then turned, watching the sky.

Several ropes and a ladder were thrown over the side, and the Mountain's corpse hauled up onto the ship. The marauders climbed back aboard, and Qyburn had grasped the ladder, when the sound of bells reached the top of the tower. The Wolf had clearly heard them as well, for he stared fixedly at a point in the distance and growled. Qyburn saw him look disgusted and hurriedly climbed the ladder before the angry barbarian could vent his frustrations on him.

Aboard the Seafang, the marauders had stowed away the Mountain's corpse and taken their positions at the oars. Two of them bound Cersei's eyes and mouth and tied her limbs together before dragging her into the hold.

Akkarulf looked out to the dragon devastating the city and touched Sven on the shoulder.

"How much longer will it last?"

Sven snarled as he looked at the smoldering remains of a small amulet.

"Near finish, hurry!"

Akkarulf rushed to the mast, grabbing a longbow and a quiver of arrows, pushing the Maester to the deck. Qyburn stared in some confusion as the Wolf yelled something that grated at his ears. A hole seemed to open in midair just before the prow of the flying ship. He had heard reports of something similar the first time the Mountain had been killed, but-

"Put your head between your knees, cover your ears and shut your eyes, fleshcrafter! And keep them shut!"

The rowers pulled back in unison, and the longship shot forward.

Minutes later, only Sandor's inert form remained on the ruined landing far below.

* * *

In the air, Danaerys whipped her head left and right, snarling as the hated sound struck her ears, surrounding her. She could no longer ignore it by flying elsewhere. She wheeled Drogo around, looking for its source, and all the while the veil of fury slowly lifted until she suddenly recognized it.

Bells, hundreds of them, ringing in desperate cacophony in a sea of fire.

She looked down at King's Landing. The city was a raging inferno, and despite the altitude she thought she could hear the agonized screams of men, women and children being burned alive. Here and there a flash of green flared up as an undiscovered cache of wyldfire ignited.

All of it, done by her hand. The very atrocity her father had been murdered for, now completed, and far greater extent than he had managed. Jaime Lannister had sacrificed his honor and his name to stop such an atrocity, and she had wanted to kill him. Who was she now to judge him? Where was her talk now of breaking the wheel? Of bringing an end to the cycle of violence, of tyrant overthrowing tyrant only to become even worse?

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she urged Drogon forward, anywhere, to flee the carnage she had inflicted on the city. Drogon screeched, and pushed forward.

Even as the city shrank in the distance, even through the wind whistling through her ears, even through the pounding of her heart, she still heard the bells.


	19. Chapter 6,11

Cersei struggled against her bonds, but to no avail. On a pile of furs inside the ship's hold, she only heard muffled sounds from the outside, and fought an urge to throw up. Finally it ended, but it was only a brief reprieve, as she heard thudding steps and felt herself hauled up in a huge hand. The blindfold was removed and she blinked. Most of the dusky light was blocked by the hulking shape of the Wolf, but she recognized Qyburn next to him, looking queasy himself.

"Inspect her, fleshcrafter. The Warp is rarely kind to southerlings, even blinded and deafened against its peculiar charms. You need her stripped?"

Cersei blushed despite herself.

"Oh, come off it. It's nothing you haven't already shown your husbands, lovers, brother, and the entire city."

The Wolf spread his hands, clearly ready to make good on his threat.

"Er- that will not be necessary, lord. The child is not yet sufficiently developed to require-"

The Wolf's head snapped towards Qyburn.

"Child? What chil-"

"Oh, damn, that's right. The rust-born _did_ mention it. Out of curiosity, think it'll be fair or dark of hair? It's for a bet."

"I... I could not say, lord."

The Wolf said nothing while Qyburn ensured Cersei had not been wounded.

"Right. You're going into town tomorrow, fleshcrafter, so get yourself a hood or hat if you think it'll prevent you from being lynched on the spot. Sven has a potion that'll give you a face like a leper for a few days. Hop to it."

Qyburn left with barely an apologetic glance at Cersei. She looked up, trembling as the Wolf removed her gag and squatted on his hams. He was still far taller than her, but now she could make out his face in the gloom.

"What will you do to me?"

The Wolf's gaze slowly swept up and down her body like a slaver appraising a joygirl's potential before finally locking eyes with her, his expression of disdain and amusement clear.

"Not what you think... or rather _hope_ will happen."

Cersei felt her cheeks burning.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Somewhere safe from the Dragonqueen."

Cersei looked the Wolf in the eye.

"And then you'll kill me."

The Wolf smirked.

"If I wanted you dead you'd have two horses splitting you open from arse to mouth, with the Dragonqueen watching and the armies of the Northmen cheering and lining up for their turn."

"No, I still need you alive for the moment, and alive you will remain, but the conditions of your imprisonment depend on your behavior."

The Wolf looked down at her.

"To start with, tell me. What were you going to do with the rust-born once you'd won?"

Cersei started. Of all the questions he could have asked, this one had never occurred to her.

"Was your cunt his to take and seed as he claimed, or was he given to boasting about that which did not belong to him?"

"You- you mean Euron?"

"Iron Islander, so full of himself it's coming out his ears, face that's begging for a slap... You've shared a bed with him, though I know that won't narrow it down much for you."

"You don't seem the type to share a throne. Would you have had him poisoned, killed by the big lummox or sent off to die in some unwinnable war?"

Cersei said nothing. While she had not given any thought to it, Euron's death would have been inevitable once Danaerys had been defeated. The Wolf continued, as though the question no longer interested him, if he had even cared about the answer in the first place.

"So, I understand you have reason to dislike me... though I can't say I recall ever meeting you. Why is that?"

Cersei stared with wide eyes. The Wolf seemed entirely serious.

"You killed the Mountain!"

"Twice now, in fact."

The barbarian seemed to ponder her answer.

"Was he too one of your lovers? Even after his transformation?"

The Wolf sighed.

"Would it go faster if I were to make a list of men you _haven't_ slept with, so I'll know which ones you won't even pretend to care about?"

Despite the humiliation, Cersei felt bile and indignation rise in her throat as the Wolf went on. She would not be so easily cowed.

"He was my champion! And because _you_ murdered him, Tyrion went free!"

"Ah yes, I remember he told me something of the sort. You held him responsible for the death of your son, I think? Although it seems it wasn't him, if not for lack of wishing on his part."

The Wolf paused.

"I wonder, its seems he's the only one of your male relatives who doesn't know you inside and out. Does he resent you for that, do you think?"

"What do _you_ care?"

"I like him."

Cersei blinked, stunned into silence by the cheerful admission.

"He shows promise, near alone among all these weakling Southerners and their dead or impotent gods."

She rallied. The Imp and this barbarian would certainly have much in common.

"He always _did_ favor the company of low-born scum like himself."

"Low-born? What does that make you, then, kin-rutter?"

The Wolf's tone was of mock ignorance.

"Is this one of those "pure bloodline" obsessions you southerlings have? Were your parents brother and sister as well? It would explain the state of the brood, the brother's body as deformed as the sister's mind."

"Better than to have been spawned from a bear and a village whore like _you!_ You enjoy this, don't you? I couldn't fight you if I tried, so you insult me? Just because I'm a woman, you think me weak."

"I hardly think you weak."

Once again Cersei was dumbfounded. The Wolf's voice had been searingly sarcastic, but there was no trace of it now.

"The fact that you survived for so long despite your... proclivities... is an achievement in and of itself, if not the same kind I would be capable of. That you were born in these softer climes and not the harsh lands of the North only makes you more exceptional. And of course, that your offspring did not end up as drooling imbeciles, pissing themselves and smashing small animals with rocks is of some merit, despite your best efforts to ensure they were born idiots."

The Wolf grinned.

"No, I do not think you weak, even if there are a few women in these lands who can fight... I simply see that you are unskilled in anything that doesn't involve the whore's arts, and too stupid to understand that."

Cersei could only emit an indignant squeak at so bald-faced a insult.

"You try to pin a crime on your enemies rather than the criminal, you make alliances without considering how to be rid of them, you take on debts without worrying about how to pay them off, you execute prisoners who could have been of use to you..."

The Wolf sucked his breath between his teeth.

"You're not much of a ruler, are you?"

Cersei sat up as best as she could, the sheer condescension in the Wolf's voice making her fight back against anything he said.

"I am a _queen_, you uncivilized clod! By birth, by right, by marriage!"

"Some queen _you_ are. From what I've been told, you ruled in your son's stead, but you couldn't even keep him alive long enough to keep up the pretense. What would you have done once he was old enough to want a woman of his own, sent your daughter into his bed, or slip in yourself?"

Cersei spat at him. The Wolf grabbed the back of Cersei's hair, bringing her face up to his. She shivered and shrank back.

"Cold? And you being famous for walking around with no clothes on. I'll have to ask you to avoid doing that, it gets chilly where we're going. And the randy bastards don't row half as well when it's not a big _wooden_ pole they want to hold in their hands and thrust somewhere wet."

The Wolf pushed Cersei up against the wall and released his grip.

"Now, answer me this: Not a day ago you were Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, feared throughout most of the continent, and the only hope against the invaders from the east. Now you have less power than a kitchen thrall, surrounded by strangers to whom you are only marginally more useful alive than dead."

"Whose fault is that? Who started all this?"

Cersei's eyes goggled.

"What? That Targaryen _whore!_ If she even ever _was_ a Targaryen and not a bastard fathered by a stable boy!"

"And before that? Why did she come to oust you in the first place?"

"Because of Tyrion!"

Cersei launched into a full diatribe, forgetting her predicament as decades of hate and resentment boiled over.

"_He_ convinced her to return, sold out his own people, his own blood, just to curry favor with the bitch! That vicious little demon, he should have been strangled at birth! Everything is his fault, everything!"

The Wolf said nothing until Cersei had regained her breath.

"I understand your father was a a cruel tyrant whose death was cause for celebration."

"Is _that_ what he says? Of course it's what he says, you being such good _friends_."

She spat the word as though it was the worst insult she could think of.

"He murdered our father just like he murdered our mother, just to get at me, just so that our House would be broken and ruined. He _hates_ us because he can never be a true man, as if I was responsible for his deformities! He _hated_ my son and plotted his death, he escaped his trial to join that silver-haired whore, he started a war we would have won if he hadn't been pouring his words into her ears, revealing our every weakness to her! Our family's downfall is entirely due to _him_, the lying, conniving, whoring little shitstain!"

"And not to your ineptitude? When your scribes look back to your reign, will they write, 'Here was a slut who was crowned queen, who drank like a fish and drove the realm to ruin, all because she was too thick to realize you're not supposed to fuck your siblings?' "

Her eyes wild, Cersei looked the Wolf in the face.

"You know _why_ I fucked my brother? You know why I did what I did?"

There was no hesitation on her part, entirely consumed by the need to cast her actions in the judgmental barbarian's face, to crush him beneath the weight of her joy and make him realize how weak and insignificant he was.

"Because it felt _good_. I've tasted pleasures _you_ will never know, had the entire continent at my feet, had hundreds murdered, and I felt more joy in imagining their screams as they burned than you will _ever_ experience!"

That had certainly shut him up, and he stared at her for a long time, his expression unreadable. Cersei's face radiated triumph, basking in the pleasure of having defeated the barbarian in a battle of wits, even as she panted, somewhat out of breath.

Finally he smiled.

"You are everything I could have hoped for and more."

The Wolf stood up.

"Akkarulf!"

The hulking marauder entered. Cersei's eyes went to him and the helmet she had last seen Euron carry as a trophy.

"See to it that our... honored guest enjoys Helga's company, and lacks for nothing. Don't untie or ungag her while we're in port, don't unchain her ever, even at sea. If she asks for wine, only the best, save that which belongs to the Shield-slayer. If she asks for men, make sure they're at least good-looking and free of pox, preferably fair of hair, and remind them of which holes they may and may not enter."

Though his face was hidden by his helmet, Akkarulf paused, evidently confused. The Wolf sighed, incongruously reminding Cersei of her father dealing with the failures of his subordinates.

"She's carrying, as you yourself noted and ensured. Since she'd already be hard-pressed to identify the father, let's not confuse matters any further by adding other candidates. Her cunt's off-limits until I say otherwise, and I'll trust you to make sure it remains that way."

At the door, the Wolf paused.

"In the meantime, she's got other holes, they'll just have to share."

The Wolf left, leaving Cersei to look with apprehension at her new jailer, wearing Euron's stolen helmet. What did the Wolf mean by "ensured"?

That her once-bedmate was dead was less cause for mourning than the fact that she knew she was now one ally short. Before she could scream, the marauder had tied a length of eelskin around her mouth and picked her up over his shoulder again, taking her to another dark and cramped area in the longship's hold. She fell on a bed of crinkling straw, rolling to feel wooden planks behind her. The marauder clapped an iron shackle around her neck and left. She heard his footsteps fade away, leaving her in utter darkness.

Something snuffled and snorted next to her.

* * *

The Wolf stood at the prow of his longship, looking at the seas far below. In the setting sun, the coast of Blackwater Bay glowed red as a furnace. The ship was so high in the air the fires of Danaery's war camp were only visible as a collection of pinpoints of light, while the great inferno of King's Landing had subdued into a sullen glow. Akkarulf joined him, carrying two tankards and offering one to his captain.

"It went well, yarrl?"

"Better than I expected, Akkarulf. And yet..."

Akkarulf remained silent, but looked curious. The Wolf drained his tankard.

"I have at last taken all the trophies the gods requested of me, and yet there is still something missing."

He made a sweeping motion with the tankard, encompassing the blazing city.

"A walled city on fire, its gates opened wide as a dockside whore's legs, its citizens terrified and fleeing, grand slaughter without and within... A portal to the realm of the gods opening at the decapitated peak of its highest tower and vomiting forth daemons without number should have been a grand conclusion to this saga. And yet nothing of the sort happened, as you saw."

The Wolf shrugged.

"I must await another sign, another vision."

"Wasn't taking control of her mind enough?"

The Wolf looked surprised and turned to face his henchman.

"Taking control of her mind? Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Well, she didn't attack before she was hit by the spell, didn't she intend to spare the city before Sven forced her to burn it?"

"He didn't force her to do anything. You think I'd even let him near the ship if he could do that, much less trust him with anything more important than gathering firewood?"

The Wolf shook his head.

"No, this was no domination of wills. She locked herself up without food after the last parley resulted in the murder of her soldiers, she doesn't seem to have been getting any attention from her lover, her friends tried to poison her... that's not a state of mind leading to compassion."

"She would have been in one mind to raze the city in retaliation for the losses she suffered, and in another, to spare them and be accepted as ruler rather than force her way in. I'm sure that's why we saw the dragon going down instead of going straight for the keep. No need to shackle her mind to get her to torch the city, Sven just gave her a little... push in the right direction. Making sure the coin landed the right way up."

The Wolf took the other tankard from Akkarulf and emptied it in a single gulp.

"This was her choice. Although I do wonder if she might have been so eager to burn it if the slut-queen had kept her hostages alive."

"Sven said his spell made her hear the bells as a sound so horrible she'd stop attacking, so that she'd leave more to loot and reduce the chances of killing our men."

"Yes, that he made her hear the bells overloud wasn't something I'd thought of, or told him to do, but having duly considered it, he was right."

Akkarulf looked behind him, where the sorcerer was getting to his feet. In the flickering light of the ship's torches he could see a huge bruise around Sven's eye. Akkarulf turned back, but the Wolf had seen his movement.

"He was right, but he still disobeyed me. It worked, but it could have gone very wrong. Imagine if she'd stopped attacking and fled as soon as she heard the bells. That's why you need to deal strongly with sorcerers and their kind, they always think they know better than you."

"And if Sven hadn't pushed her?"

"If his spell failed, or he decided not to cast it?"

"There's a difference?"

"Had it failed, and the tower not been sent to the depths of the border-realm as can happen when the gods decide to punish the arrogance of a wizard, I would have asked the Dragonqueen for the heads of the fleshcrafter and his creature. I think she would have been in a mood to give them to me, and even to take my advice on how to deal with the kin-rutter."

"Had it failed deliberately..."

The Wolf shrugged.

"Sven is on very thin ice ever since the battle against the dead. He read the runes, and told me hiring the Crow Brothers would be well rewarded, and I spent two years' worth of plunder to hire them, not to mention the rest they demanded as payment. All that, only for most of them to die, and me without the skull I'd come to find."

The barbarian shook his head, the skulls on his chest rattling in response.

"No, the only reason he didn't die slow on that day is because he brought you to me. I would have killed him for his little additions to the spell today, but he was right about it leaving more to plunder, and it would take too long to get another sorcerer of his skill. Until my task is done, he knows he'd be better off asking the daemons of the Warp for mercy rather than failing me."

Akkarulf shivered and changed the subject.

"Maybe those we took are required as further sacrifices?"

"No, I have seen or heard nothing as to their fate. I am keeping them just in case, if this world continues to escape the grasp of Chaos they will be more useful to us alive."

"How so, yarrl? They are among the most hated people in all the Seven Kingdoms. The North alone would gladly see Cersei drawn and quartered, and would not lift a finger to save the others."

"Precisely. You will understand, in time."

Akkarulf deemed it wiser not to press the matter, knowing it was a mark of his usefulness to the barbarian to be told this much.

"Yes yarrl. Are we to return to Danaerys' camp in the meantime?"

"Yes, but we'll not stay long. Once we make landfall, send word to our men- all of them, that we leave within the week. Tell them to exchange their plunder for lighter and smaller valuables, we won't have room for slaves."

Akkarulf nodded, and was about to turn around when the Wolf tapped him on the shoulder.

"Oh, and find a different helmet. You've been... "recognized" once already, and it worked in our favor, but it is a fool who trusts the Raven to replace caution. I think Geirr Half-Eye has a spare one, tell him to stash yours away until it's needed again."

Akkarulf left to carry out his orders. The Wolf barked at the crew, who took to their oars. The longship began its slow descent into the waters below before making an unnoticed entry into the harbor of King's Landing alongside the other ships of the victorious fleet.


End file.
